cv  7_va, 


See  page  Si»«J. 


THE 


NEWSBOY. 


NEW    Y  0  E  K : 

J.     C.     DERBY,     119     NASSAU     STREET 

BOSTON:    PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON   &   CO. 

CINCINNATI:    II.    W.    DERBY. 

1854. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854, 
BY  J.  C.  DERBY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


6TKRBOTYFHD    BY  PRINTED     BY 

THOMAS    B.    SMITH,  JOHN    A.    GRAT, 

216  William  St.,  N.  Y.  95  &  97  Cliff  St. 


58 


0  n  t  ni  t  s . 


CHAPTER  pAG,E 

I. — A  Revelation 5 

II.— The  Break-in ; 11 

III.— Favorite  Haunts 23 

IV.— Getting  Ahead 34 

V.— Our  Gal 39 

VL— The  Last  Round 48 

VII.— Baptism  of  the  Newsboy -. 1 -. . .  55 

VIII.— Flashy  Jack 62 

IX.— A  Short  Chapter 72 

X.— A  Rainy  Day 76 

XI.— The  Tombs 85 

XII.— Symbols 89 

XIII.— The  Cry  for  Light 95 

XIV.— A  Discovery. '. 102 

XV.— The  Vision 10G 

XVI.— Light 112 

XVIL— Twilight 116 

XVIII.— The  Last  Toll  at  the  Ferry 122 

XIX.— Maggie 127 

XX.— The  Dove  and  the  Snake 130 

XXI. — A  Jam  in  Broadway 134 

XXII.— The  Hand  upon  the  Arm 139 

XXIIL— The  First  Kiss ' 147 

XXIV.— Poor  Children 155 

XXV.— The  Little  Dreamer Ifi4 

XXVI.— The  Three  Sleepers 169 

XXVII.— The  Hand  on  the  Heart 1 77 

XXVIIL— The  Night  Coming 187 


IV  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

XXIX. — The  Baptism  of  the  Rain 193 

XXX. — Bob  discusses  Moral  Points 20 1 

XXXI.— Bob  philosophizes  after  the  manner  of  Plato 211 

XXXII.— The  American  Merchant 220 

XXXIII.— The  Merchant  at  Home 229 

XXXIV.— The  Night  Come 239 

XXXV.— Letter  from  Flashy  Jack 248 

XXXVI.— The  Rendezvous 256 

XXXVII.— The  Spaniard  in  New  York 265 

XXXVI1L— Cast  out  of  Eden 275 

XXXIX.— The  Slave 286 

XL.— The  Wreck 297 

XLL— Unconsidered  Trifles 307 

XLII. — The  Benefits  of  Orphanage » 316 

XLIIL— The  Slave 323 

XLI V.— The  Peril 331 

XL V.— The  Retribution 339 

XL VI.— Dilemmas 348 

XL VII.— A  Sense  of  Destiny 358 

XL VIII.— The  Gypsy  Curse 366 

XLIX.— The  Ivory  Crucifix 373 

L.— The  Italian 381 

LL— The  Nun 388 

LIL— Aunt  Beckey 398 

LILT. — Aunt  Beckey's  Housekeeping 411 

LIV. — The  Weary  are  at  Rest 421 

L  V.— Grief  of  the  Magdalen 430 

L  VI.— Guilty  ? 439 

LVIL— Last  Hours 448 

L VIII. — Extremes  meet 45G 

LIX. — Aunt  Beckey's  Letter 465 

LX.— A  Voyage 473 

LXI.— A  Home  in  the  Tropics 482 

LXIL— A  Surprise.. 494 

LXIII.— An  Interview 505 

LXIV.— Revenge 514 

LXV.— Conclusion...  ..   518 


"  AND  so  your  name  is  Bob,  that  means  Bobert," 
I  said  to  the  Newsboy  one  morning  as  I  bought  a  daily 
paper  at  my  window. 

"  There  ain't  no  Eobert  about  it,  nothing  but 
Bob,"  he  replied,  and  I  saw  he  was  vexed  at  my  at 
tempt  to  christen  him.  I  saw  he  was  proud  of  being 
only  Bob,  and  I  couldn't  but  feel  it  was  a  great  thing 
to  be  conscious  of  so  much  in  ourselves,  that  we 
could  afford  to  contemn  birth,  country,  station  and 
fortune.  Then  I  began  to  reverence  the  Newsboy  and 
to  study  his  history,  as  I  shall  record  it  in  these  pages. 

But  I  am  a  great  way  ahead  of  my  story,  and  I 
must  go  back  and  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  tell  my 
reasons  for  book-making.  It  was  in  this  wise  : 


6  THE    NEWSBOY. 

All  my  friends  and  neighbors  were  writing  books, 
some  were  making  money  by  writing  them,  others 
were  not,  yet  each,  I  saw,  was  made  happier  for  hav 
ing  something  to  do.  It  gave  a  purpose  to  life. 
There  is  nothing  without  its  uses.  The  little  flower 
of  Innocence  scattered  all  up  and  down  our  New 
England  hills  and  fields  isn't  much  to  look  at,  it 
doesn't  compare  with  the  towering  and  gorgeous 
Dahlia,  the  woman- soul'd  rose,  the  virgin  lily,  or 
the  sweet  passion-freighted  blue  violet,  loving  the 
shadow  because  of  its  full  heart ;  and  yet  this  star- 
eyed  flower  of  Innocence  is  very  winsome — it  dots 
any  little  cleft  and  corner  that  will  give  it  a  foothold ; 
down  in  the  meadow,  where  the  brook  gurgles  around 
the  roots  of  the  old  elms,  and  the  speckled  trout  hides 
himself  beneath,  the  flower  of  Innocence  (Houstonia 
Cerulea)  glows  like  a  shimmering  robe  on  the  should 
ers  of  beauty — by  the  farm  yard  it  nestles,  hoping  to 
displace  the  great  ugly  burdocks ;  in  the  shadows  of 
old  boulders,  rounded  by  the  deluge  ;  by  the  dusty 
roadside,  where  the  children  with  blankets  over  their 
heads,  feel  its  velvet  touch  upon  their  bare  feet  as 
they  go  by  to  school ;  everywhere  this  unpretending 
blossom  conies,  like  the  homely  virtues,  strong  and 


A    REVELATION.  7 

healthful,  and  unthought  of  because  of  their  abun 
dance. 

So  in  book-making — the  world  is  so  full  of  them 
that  thousands  are  unnoticed,  and  it  may  be  the  best 
are  of  this  class.  But  that  does  n't  matter ;  this  would 
be  a  dull,  mischief-making,  wicked  world  without  the 
poorest  of  them ;  but  when  the  great  "  burdocks"  of 
literature  shall  have  been  put  aside  by  more  healthful 
emanations,  it  will  be  well.  I  thought  of  these 
things,  thinking  to  write  a  book,  and  so  I  looked  to 
the  uplands  and  the  valleys  and  the  wayside,  amid 
noisome  weeds  and  fair  blossoms,  by  the  mossy  rock 
and  the  damp  unsightly  fungus,  and  everywhere  I 
saw  this  flower  of  Innocence  grew,  pure  in  itself  and 
dispensing  purity,  and  so  I  said  I  will  write  of  com 
mon  things — of  the  great  wayfarings  of  the  city  just 
as  it  is.  I  will  "  nothing  extenuate,"  but  I  will  not 
be  like  the  wasp  gathering  poison  from  sweets,  but 
rather  like  the  bee,  which  distils  pure  honey  alike 
from  the  poisonous  hellebore  and  the  sweet  clover. 

For  this  purpose  I  visited  the  city,  I  went  from 
place  to  place,  taking  my  eyes  with  me,  and  my  heart 
also.  I  saw  how  the  dragon-fly  loves  the  city,  but 
the  butterfly  avoids  it ;  and  I  could  see  a  reason  why 


8  THE    NEWSBOY. 

it  should  be  so.  As  I  sat  by  my  window  with  a 
lovely  Geranium  blooming  upon  my  table,  a  hum 
ming  bird  entered  and  inserted  his  tube-like  bill  into 
the  flowers  one  by  one — his  gossamer  wings  fluttering 
in  a  continuous  low  buzz.  It  was  not  long  that  he 
staid,  but  I  had  afforded  him  a  banquet ;  here  in  the 
midst  of  dust  and  noise  and  evil  and  pollution,  his 
delicate  sense  had  detected  a  spot  fresh  and  lovely  as 
an  Eden,  and  hither  he  had  come  giving  and  receiv 
ing  Joy- 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  us,  dear  reader  ?  We  may 
not  be  many,  but  if  we  shall  by  any  means  entertain 
angels  unaware,  will  it  not  be  a  blessedness  ?  I  was 
thinking  of  such  possibilities,  and  so  I  looked  out  in 
the  morning,  (I  am  sure  it  was  in  the  morning,  for 
that  is  the  time  for  pleasant  thoughts,)  when  under 
my  window  I  saw  a  little  Newsboy  calling  in  a  lusty 
voice  the  names  of  several  of  the  morning  papers. 
He  was  a  skin  of  a  boy,  little,  and  old  before  his 
time.  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  taking  Tom 
Thumb,  or  the  Aztecs  for  a  hero  as  this  newsboy. 
Wasn't  he  poor,  and  ragged,  and  ignorant,  and 
wouldn't  everybody  laugh  at  the  idea  !  Little  by 
little,  Bob  (I  afterward  learned  his  name  was  Bob) 


A    KEVELATION.  9 

grew  into  my  mind,  not  as  a  poor,  forsaken,  ignorant, 
neglected  child,  who  ought  to  be  taken  up  and  sent 
to  the  Orphan  Asylum,  or  asylum  for  vagrants,  but  as 
a  great- soul'd  boy,  whose  nobleness  I  dared  not  fath 
om,  but  which  I  could  appreciate,  the  latchet  of  whose 
old,  dilapidated  shoes  I  was  not  worthy  to  unloose. 
He  had  walked  through  fiery  furnaces  unscathed,  and 
sat  amid  lions,  and  their  savageness  had  been  rebuked 
before  him. 

I  learned  to  await  the  coming  of  the  Newsboy  with 
solemn  expectancy,  and  the  shuffling  of  his  weary 
feet  grew  to  have  a  majesty  about  them ;  his  ragged 
habiliments '  were  right  royal  robes  over  his  great 
heart,  and  the  brimless  hat  became  him  like  a  regal 
crown,  for  Bob  had  that  innate  dignity  of  soul  which 
neither  crown  nor  sceptre  could  augment. 

Little  by  little  I  learned  his  story — little  by  little, 
for  I  was  not  great  enough  to  take  in  all  the  greatness 
of  the  Newsboy.  I  with  my  conventional  life,  and 
years  of  training,  and  ancestors  of  forecast — how 
could  I  comprehend  a  being  who  had  stood  up  naked 
from  the  hands  of  nature,  and  said  "  come  behold  a 
man  I"  "Who  had  owed  nothing  to  the  schools,  the 

preacher,  the  tailor,  and  little  to  the  cook  ;  who  was 

l* 


10  T  H  E     N  E  W  S  B  O  Y . 

a  philosopher  in  his  way,  seeing  things  through  his 
own  eyes,  and  drawing  his  own  conclusions  unaided 
of  any  man. 

The  image  of  the  Newsboy  haunted  me,  and  at 
length  I  felt  I  must  write  his  history.  I  saw  that  the 
race  would  soon  be  so  modified  by  the  genialities  of 
some  benevolent  souls,  that  the  newsboy  of  our  time 
would  pass  away  and  be  only  a  tradition,  and  even 
the  nobleness  of  Bob  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  fable. 
I  looked  into  the  newsboy  lodging  rooms,  and  saw 
how  these  benevolent  souls  (God  comfort  them  in 
every  hour  of  need,  and  do  them  good  even  as  they 
have  done  good)  were  making  this  wilderness  life  of 
the  newsboy  to  blossom  as  the  rose,  and  soon  the 
newsboy  of  Bob's  time,  sleeping  by  the  wayside,  in 
areas,  under  steps,  about  the  Parks,  in  old  crates  and 
hogsheads,  in  the  markets,  and  everywhere  that  a 
shelter  could  be  found,  would  be  forgotten  ;  and  then 
it  was  that  the  Ishmael-like  wanderings  of  Bob, 
fatherless  and  motherless,  friendless  and  forsaken, 
going  up  and  down  the  great  city,  grew  to  have  a 
genuine  pathos  about  them,  and  I  put  myself  to  the 
study  of  his  character,  and  learned  he  was  a  hero. 


II. 

X 

flu  Urnfe-gii. 

BOB  never  knew  he  was  a  hero.  He  had  come 
up,  he  hardly  knew  how,  amid  creatures  as  forlorn  as 
himself.  He  had  known  hunger,  and  cold,  and 
misery,  in  every  shape.  He  had  been  the  companion 
of  the  outcast  from  the  first  dawning  of  his  existence. 
One  guardian  after  another  of  the  forlorn  boy  had 
died  or  grown  weary  of  the  charge,  so  that  only  an 
indistinct  memory  of  hunger  and  cold,  and  achings 
of  the  limbs,  and  pains  of  the  head,  remained  to  him. 
A  creeping  child  he  had  been  kicked  over  the  thresh 
old,  not  in  absolute  cruelty,  but  because  he  was  in  the 
way,  and  the  inmates  lacked  bread  and  elbow  room, 
for  when  did  ever  hunger  make  the  heart  loving,  or 
cold  make  it  warm,  or  nakedness  make  it  tender  and 
protective  ?  The  laborer  toils  and  grows  into  a  great 


12  THE   NEWSBOY. 

loving  manhood  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  which 
brings  him  at  nightfall  competence  and  repose ;  but 
the  unskilled  poor,  who  lack  the  faculty  of  steady 
work,  live  but  from  hand  to  mouth,  doubling  and  fly 
ing  like  the  hunted  hare,  with  the  hungry  hounds  of 
famine  ever  at  their  back,  and  they  sink  down  at 
nightfall,  not  with  the  hearty  thanksgiving  of  the  la 
borer,  but  with  the  exhaustion  of  the  hard-beset 
beast,  and  sleep  because  sleep  will  claim  them — pity 
ing  sleep  will  cradle  them  in  her  tender  embraces, 
that  thus  they  may  forget  their  wretchedness. 

But  Bob  was  a  sturdy  child,  and  knew  better  than 
to  creep  long.  While  he  paddled  about  upon  all 
fours  he  presented  a  broad  mark  for  the  idle  foot,  a 
tempting  mark  for  the  careless  or  cruel  foot,  so  with 
lusty  sinews  the  boy  sculled  away  to  one  side  when 
footsteps  approached ;  and  soon  by  dint  of  aid  from 
walls  and  broken  chairs  his  little  head  was  up  and 
his  feet  planted — yes,  planted,  for  there  was  that 
about  Bob,  that  once  fixed  with  his  head  uppermost 
in  the  world,  you  might  kill  him  outright,  but  you 
could  never  make  him  bite  the  dust  again.  He  knew 
better  than  to  tottle  long.  Oh  the  rich  child  may 
creep,  and  crawl,  and  totter  through  a  long  helpless 


THE    BREAK-IN.  13 

infancy,  may  "  mule  and  puke  in  its  nurses  arms" 
for  years,  but  the  poor  have  no  chance  for  this ;  na 
ture  prompts  them  greatly;  she  tugs  at  the  muscle 
and  pulls  at  the  tendon  till  each  is  glad  to  do  its 
office.  The  rich  baby  may  scream,  and  cry,  and  drule 
out  its  imbecility,  a  torment  to  itself  or  others,  but 
the  beggar's  brat  dares  not  cry — teething  or  no  teeth 
ing,  it  dare  not  raise  a  clamor.  It  never  cries ;  its 
poor  little  blackened  feet  are  covered  with  bruises — at 
which  it  has  "  put  up  the  lip,"  as  mothers  say,  but 
dared  not  make  audible  its  complaint ;  it  peers  at  the 
old  knot  holes  in  the  worn  floor,  and  the  dust  comes 
up  from  beneath  to  blind  its  eyes,  but  it  rubs  them 
and  sputters  and  crawls  away — it  never  had  pity  and 
does  not  look  for  it  now.  Next,  its  fingers  are  poking 
at  the  hinge  of  the  leaning  door,  and  the  passer-by 
gives  it  a  push ;  oh  sharp  is  the  agony,  and  deathly 
sharp  and  fierce  the  pang  from  the  crushed  and 
bruised  hand,  but  it  only  sinks  back  faint ;  no  sound, 
no  word  after  the  first  brief  animal  outcry.  It  at 
tempts  to  mount  the  rickety  stairs  but  slips  between 
the  boards ;  you  hear  it  bump  once,  and  all  is  hushed, 
you  think  surely  the  child  is  dead — no,  it  is  only 
black  in  the  face  ;  a  sharp  slap  upon  the  back,  a  blow 


14  THE    NEWSBOY. 

of  the  breath  into  the  mouth,  a  dash  of  water  at  the 
pump,  and  it  gasps,  gives  a  suppressed  scream,  and 
then  commences  to  lap  the  water  as  it  runs  down  its 
cheeks ;  twists  its  fingers  uneasily,  and  now  and  then 
touches  them  with  its  tongue,  but  you  hear  nothing 
more.  For  hours  it  looks  blue  and  pale,  and  its  tan 
gled  hair  drips  with  the  sweat  that  bursts  from  its 
pores,  but  it  creeps  away  to  the  door  where  the  bright 
sun  lingers  upon  the  step,  and  there  it  sleeps — sleeps 
for  hours,  and  the  passer-by  does  not  kick,  nor  push, 
nor  molest  the  sleeping  child,  for  it  is  hallowed  even 
to  the  rudest  heart. 

Thus  had  Bob  come  up — he  never  knew  how. 
His  first  memories  were  of  thrift.  He  had  sought  for 
old  pins  and  rusty  nails,  and  bits  of  cloth  in  the  gut 
ter,  when  he  could  hardly  walk  ;  next  he  had  picked 
up  chips,  which  he  carried  in  a  basket  upon  his 
head.  Then  there  was  an  interregnum ;  he  did  not 
know  what  had  happened — he  might  have  been  sick. 
Many  who  had  looked  after  him  were  gone,  he 
couldn't  tell  how  nor  why.  He  had  an  indistinct 
memory  of  long  white  boxes — very  many  of  them — 
coming  and  -going.  He  had  rides  upon  a  cart  some 
times  ;  and  altogether,  he  did  n't  seem  to  have  done 


THE   BKEAK-IK.  15 

anything,  and  yet  had  slept  and  eaten.  The  cholera 
had  decimated  the  miserable  locality.  At  length  he 
found  himself  in  the  street — he  did  n't  know  where  to 
go.  He  was  but  a  little  fellow,  and  he  stood  looking 
at  the  people  as  they  went  along,  and  wondering 
where  they  came  from  and  whither  they  were  going. 
He  began  to  feel  hungry ;  and  a  terrible  fear  came 
upon  him.  Everybody  seemed  to  have  some  other 
body  who  cared  for  them,  who  exchanged  a  word,  a 
smile,  or  even  a  blow,  showing  they  stood  in  relation 
to  some  other  body  in  the  world  ;  but  there  he  stood, 
a  poor,  little,  unlovely  child,  and  nobody  cared  for 
him.  He  was  dirty,  very  dirty — he  had  nothing  but 
rags,  and  scanty  of  these. 

It  was  a  pitiful  sight,  the  poor  thing  looking  so 
eagerly  into  the  faces  of  people,  and  wondering  in  his 
little  heart  where  he  came  from  and  where  he  should 
go.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  grasped  the  robes  of  a 
rich  lady,  for  she  was  so  beautiful  that  the  child's 
poor  heart  was  lured  from  his  bosom  towards  her ;  but 
she  shook  him  off  with  a  frown  that  marred  all  her 
beauty.  Next  a  smooth,  solemn-looking  man  went 
by,  and  little  Bob  clung  to  him.  "  Let  me  go,  my 
little  boy,"  he  said  in  an  oily  voice,  and  went  on.  At 


16  THE    NEWSBOY. 

this  moment  a  loud  clear  voice  sung  out,  "  Morning 
papers — latest  news  by  the  steamer — have  a  paper, 
Sir?"  dropping  the  voice  suddenly  at  the  last  clause. 

The  gentleman  appealed  to  stopped,  paid  for  the 
paper  and  went  on ;  and  the  newsboy  would  have 
done  the  same,  but  he  was  habited  in  a  long  coat,  a 
world  too  wide  and  long  for  his  make,  and  when  he 
had  gone  the  length  of  his  coat  tail,  he  found  himself 
brought  up  square,  for  poor  Bob  had  fastened  himself 
thereon  in  a  sort  of  despair. 

"Let  go,  you  little  rascal,  you,"  said  Sam,  in  an 
under  tone,  for  his  pride  was  wounded  at  being  seized 
upon  in  this  way.  But  Bob  didn't  let  go ;  on  the 
contrary  he  held  on  only  the  tighter.  Sam  turned 
round  sharply,  and  gave  him  a  smart  box  upon  the 
ear.  Bob  didn't  scream  nor  flinch,  but  looked  into 
the  newsboy's  face  with  such  a  keen,  sharp  look  of 
agony,  that  he  was  compelled,  as  it  were,  to  stop 
and  see  what  he  wanted.  He  wasn't  used  to  com- 
fortings  of  any  kind  himself,  and  so  he  didn't  know 
how  to  apply  them.  He  put  his  hand  up  under  his 
ragged  greasy  cap,  and  gave  a  great  stretch  and  yawn, 
a  luxury  he  had  not  before  found  time  to  indulge  in  for 
the  day.  This  seemed  to  call  in  his  wandering  ideas. 


THE    BEE AK- IN.  17 

"  Hungry,  Bub  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bob. 

"  Well,  come  along.  Didn't  hurt  you  nor  no 
thing,  did  I  ?"  asked  Sam,  referring  to  the  blow. 

"No." 

"Didn't  I  though?  your  face  is  red  as  a  beet 
where  my  pickers  went.  Tough  as  a  pitch-knot' !" 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  corner  of  Nassau 
and  Fulton  streets,  where  an  old  woman  sat  knitting 
under  an  umbrella,  fastened  by  strings  to  the  wall  to 
do  service  as  an  awning.  On  the  board  before  her 
were  candies,  and  sugar  plums,  and  russet  apples 
piled  in  the  shape  of  pyramids,  and  plump  yellow 
cakes  of  molasses,  and  Bob  was  soon  swallowing  one 
of  these  with  avidity. 

"Hungry  as  the  deuce,"  ejaculated  Sam,  eyeing 
him  with  a  satisfied  air.  "Where's  your  house, 
Bub?" 

"  Havn't  got  none." 

"Well,  your  bunk,  then?" 

"  None  o'  that  'either." 

"  Well,  where's  your  Mum?" 

"  Got  none." 

"  Well,  your  Dad,  then?" 


18  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Got  none." 

"  Whew !    Who  owns  you  ?" 

"Nobody." 

Sam  brought  out  a  whistle  so  prolonged  that  you 
would  have  wondered  how  he  ever  got  Ms  breath, 
again.  Next  he  brought  down  his  old  boot  hard 
upon  the  pavement,  and  then  doubled  up  his  body 
into  what  was  his  expression  for  a  great  laugh.  Then 
he  cut  this  short,  huddled  his  papers  up  quickly 
under  his  arms,  cocked  his  cap  defiantly  to  one  side, 
and  looking  at  little  Bob  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
and  speaking  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  he 
said, 

"  You  don't  come  it  over  this  child ;  no  you  don't, 
Bubby,  go,  get  out !"  And  he  shambled  along  till 
he  found  himself  brought  too  again  by  the  long  coat 
tail.  This  time  Sam  turned  sharply  round,  and  stuck 
out  his  chin,  and  made  as  if  he  would  walk  right  over 
the  child ;  but  Bob  stood  his  ground.  Again  Sam 
had  recourse  to  a  scratch  of  his  head,  and  then  he 
seized  poor  Bob  and  gave  him  some  pretty  telling 
blows  upon  his  half  naked  back.  Bob  was  used  to 
this,  and  never  once  dreamed  of  an  outcry. 

"Jordan  's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  /  believe,"  whig- 


THE    BREAK-IN.  19 

tied  Sam,  eyeing  Bob  again  in  what  might  be  called  a 
slantindicular  way. 

"  You  darn'd  young  spooney,  what  do  you  mean  by 
holdin'  on  to  my  coat  tail  ?  Touch  it  again  and  I'll 
knock  you  into  next  week  !"  and  again  he  gathered 
up  his  papers,  shouting,  "  Morning  news  by  the 
steamer — late  arrival — terrible  shipwreck — two  hun 
dred  lives" — he  cut  short  by  feeling  again  the  same 
tug  at  his  long  coat.  Bob  had  found  somebody  to 
look  at  him,  and  he  dreaded  desertion  more  than 
rough  words  and  hard  blows.  Poor  Sam  threw  down 
his  whole  stock  in  trade  in  utter  disgust ;  he  pushed 
back  his  old  cap,  but  didn't  scratch  his  head — he  was 
too  far  gone  for  that ;  he  stuck  both  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  leaned  up  against  the  brick  walls  of  the 
Herald  office,  his  boots  far  out  upon  the  side-walk, 
submitting  to  the  jeers  of  his  companions  without  a 
word. 

"  I  ain't  equal  to  the  occasion,  that 's  a  fact,"  he 
muttered.  "  Here,  Bub,  take  my  hat,  I  give  up. 
Youngster,  be  you  a  little  Beelzebub  ? 

"  No." 

"  One  o'  his  imps  ?" 

"  No." 


20  T  H  E     N  E  W  S  B  O  Y . 

"  Be  you  the  ghost  of  a  cfcfunct  newsboy  ?" 

"Don't  know." 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"Nothing." 

"Will  you  go  away?" 

"No." 

"Look  here— I'll  kill  you,  I  will.  I'll  beat  you 
to  jelly.  Gorry !  he  does  n't  move  no  more  than  the 
steeple  of  Trinity.  Look  here,  I  'm  goin' — be  you 
goin'  to  hang  on  to  my  out-flyer  agin,  draggin'  on  in 
this  way?  You  are?  Lord!  I'm  caught,  maties!" 
And  Sam  gave  out  a  peculiar  whistle  which  had  the 
effect  to  bring  a  score  of  newsboys  to  his  aid. 

Sam  recounted  his  grievances  with  a  round  of 
oaths.  ".There  won't  be  a  thread  left  of  my  go-to- 
metins — hold  him  by  the  ears  while  I  run — but 
mind,  he'll  hold  on  to  some  on  ye — so  be  lively." 
There  was  a  great  shout,  and  much  laughing,  and 
much  poking  at  poor  Bob,  who  persisted  in  keeping 
close  to  the  side  of  Sam.  "  Look  here,  Bub,"  contin 
ued  the  latter,  "  I  'm  goin'  to  give  you  such  a  lickiii' 
as  will  take  all  the  paper  off  o'  that  form  o*  yourn,  I'll 
knock  every  peg  down  that  red  lane  o'  yourn,"  and 
he  was  about  to  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  when 


THE    BREAK-IN.  21 

Bob,  who  had  got  over  his  terror,  all  at  once  gave  a 
leap  to  the  neck  of  Sam,  whom  he  commenced  to 
pound  and  pull  in  a  manner  that  showed  he  knew 
the  use  of  a  beggar 's  fist. 

The  shouts  of  the  newsboys  now  became  so  loud 
and  so  general  that  the  police  came  running  down 
Fulton  street,  where  they  had  been  smoking  in  Broad 
way  ;  but  the  boys  made  a  cordon  round  Sam  and 
Bob,  and  warned  them,  "  better  keep  off,  newsboys 
never  bother  the  Stars — newsboys  never  make  riots — 
newsboys  'spect  the  laws — newsboys  keep  out  the 
way  of  prisons  and  police  courts — newsboys  know  a 
thing  or  two — only  breaking-in  a  newsboy — tough  as 
thunder — go  it  Sam — go  it  short-legs — Lord !  ain't  he 
a  wild  cat  ?  Drop  the  blinker,  Sam — drop  the  blink 
er — play  's  over,  give  us  your  fist,  small  'un — you  're 
game,  you  '11  do — now  for  the  stock  in  trade ;  lets  hear 
you  scream — Herald — Tribune — come  out  with  you." 
And  Bob  did  scream,  for  he  had  a  stout  pair  of  lungs, 
and  no  sooner  did  he  feel  their  use  than  he  screamed 
equal  to  the  best.  And  now  pockets  were  searched, 
and  odd  pennies  were  freely  imparted  by  the  rough 
but  good-hearted  boys,  till  Bob  had  a  capital  upon 
which  to  start. 


22  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  As  handsome  a  break-in  as  ever  was,"  ejaculat 
ed  one  of  the  boys  as  he  turned  away. 

"  A  first-rate  small  'un,':  cried  another. 

"  Gorry,  didn't  his  little  digits  fly  ?  Sam  's  got 
him." 

"  Oh  !  Sam 's  got  a  'prentice,"  shouted  the  group 
as  they  turned  off  into  their  several  "  beats"  for  the 
sale  of  papers. 


III. 

|;t.l)0rite    fUMts, 

AND  so  Bob  was  duly  installed  Newsboy.  He 
liad  fought  his  way  to  the  dignity  bravely  as  the  best, 
and  now  he  was  fully  entitled  to  all  the  good  offices 
of  the  craft.  Sam  undertook  his  instruction,  taught 
him  how  to  put  his  hand  to  one  cheek  or  the  other  in 
order  to  send  his  voice  far  into  the  distance,  and  keep 
it  above  the  wind — helped  him  to  a  suit  of  clothes  in 
the  most  approved  Newsboy  fashion — himself  rolled 
up  his  long  trowsers,  and  saw  that  his  old  coat  had 
the  right  "  hang,"  and  when  Bob  proved  himself  not 
only  tough  and  smart,  but  trust-worthy,  he  became  a 
great  favorite.  If  his  capital  waxed  low  at  any  time, 
for  Bob  always  found  somebody  that  needed  his 
good  offices,  not  a  Newsboy  would  refuse  a  loan  to 
good  honest  Bob.  Like  the  rest  of  his  companions, 


24  THE    NEWSBOY. 

he  soon  became  "  posted  up"  in  all  the  doings  of  the 
great  metropolis.  He  saw  much,  and  knew  how  to 
keep  "  a  stiff  upper  lip."  He  heard  much,  and 
"  mum"  was  the  word.  The  Newsboy  is  no  gossip, 
no  intermeddler — he  Las  a  horror  of  "  lock  ups,"  he 
respects  the  police,  but  is  n't  loth  to  put  them  upon  a 
wrong  scent.  He  never  dreams  of  fellowship  out  of 
his  own  ranks.  All  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the 
world  are  an  enigma  to  him,  and  he  sees  the  crowd 
go  by  with  as  little  interest  in  the  individuals  which 
compose  it  as  if  they  each  and  all  belonged  to  anoth 
er  race.  The  fine  dresses  of  the  women,  the  nice  fix 
tures  of  the  men,  scarcely  arrest  his  eye.  He  does  n't 
see  their  use.  He  can't  comprehend  the  pleasure  of 
dressing  the  body  for  any  purpose  other  than  for  de 
cency  and  warmth.  He  understands  fully  the  value 
of  gold,  but  can't  see  the  use  of  it  in  any  shape  but 
money  ;  and  his  highest  ambition  after  the  support  of 
mother  or  sister  is  to  have  money  in  the  bank. 
When  a  Newsboy  has  reached  this  point  of  success, 
he  begins  to  assume  that  certain  dignity,  better  felt 
than  described,  which  always  pervades  the  air  of  the 
"  moneyed  man."  Then  his  companions  learn  to  treat 
him  with  a  kind  of  respect  unknown  before  ;  citing 


FAVORITE    HAUNTS.  25 

him  as  a  Newsboy  model,  and  squaring  their  own 
movements  by  what  they  had  observed  in  him. 

Sam  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  reached  this 
enviable  position.  He  had  supported  an  invalid 
mother  for  years,  and  only  the  Supreme  God  of  love 
knew  the  sufferings  he  had  endured  that  he  might  do 
this — the  hungry  days  he  had  passed  that  she  might 
eat — the  toil  and  cold  that  had  searched  every  fibre 
of  his  frame  to  lodge  in  each  its  peculiar  pang,  that 
the  poor  distressed,  dying  mother  might  not  want. 

Indeed,  to  the  Newsboy  a  woman  is  always  as 
sociated  with  pain.  His  first  memories  are  of  a  hard 
face  frowning  with  discontent  and  suffering,  a  tongue 
loud  and  vindictive,  and  a  hand  more  ready  with  a 
blow  than  any  womanly  office  of  kindness.  As  he 
grows  older,  one  or  more  is  looking  to  him  for  sup 
port — not  always  a  blood  relation,  not  always  one 
from  whom  he  has  received  good  ofiices,  but  more 
often  one  whose  only  claim  is  that  she  is  miserable, 
starving,  and  cast  off  by  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

The  theatre  is  the  one  great  attraction  to  the 
Newsboy.  A  fondness  for  dramatic  display  is  the  one 
passion  with  him.  He  will  endure  any  amount  of 

privation  that  he  may  indulge  this  passion.     Regu- 

2 


26  THE    NEWSBOY. 

larly  in  his  calculations  of  expenditure  the  shilling 
which  is  to  admit  him  into  the  Bowery  Theatre  is 
reckoned  as  a  part  not  to  be  omitted.  Here  he  may 
be  seen  night  after  night,  totally  unconscious  of  any 
thing  but  the  play  and  his  companions  in  the  pit  of 
the  theatre.  His  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness 
is  one  of  the  most  striking  features  as  he  sits  thus  ab 
sorbed  in  the  strange  and  exciting  world  before  him. 
The  passions  exhibited  by  the  actors,  the  style  of 
conversation  and  dress,  are  to  him  far  more  real  than 
the  people  whom  he  sees  in  the  boxes.  He  rarely 
ever  glances  at  the  latter  in  any  theatre  (for  a  fine 
spectacle  will  sometimes  induce  the  Newsboy  to  visit 
even  the  Broadway) ;  and  if  by  chance  something 
arrests  his  eye  there,  he  turns  it  away  suddenly  as  if 
conscious  of  an  impropriety.  When  he  is  used  to  the 
play  he  disposes  himself  for  a  nap,  with  the  under 
standing  that  a  fellow  Newsboy  will  give  him  a  nudge 
in  time  for  him  to  be  wide  awake  when  they  begin 
"  to  pile  up  the  agony,"  or  as  Bob  once  expressed  it, 
"  wake  me  up  when  Kirby  dies,"  and  then  his  loud, 
hearty  hi — hi,  is  enough  to  do  the  poor  collapsed  heart 
of  an  author  good.  That  hi — hi — hi  of  the  pit  comes 
from  the  bottom  of  the  Newsboy's  heart ;  and  were  I 


FAVOKITE    HAUNTS.  27 

the  author  of  the  play,  mine  would  rebel  when  it  is 
cut  short  by  the  rat-tat-tat  of  the  policeman's  rattan. 

When  a  new  piece  is  brought  out  the  Newsboy  is 
wide  awake,  and  then  woe  to  any  sham — the  News 
boy's  laugh,  the  Newsboy's  jeer,  are  things  not  to  be 
despised.  He  is  all  real  himself,  nature  down  to  his 
heels,  and  he  won't  bear  anything  else ;  but  when  a 
word  or  a  scene  is  in  accordance  therewith,  the  great 
generous  soul  of  the  Newsboy  comes  out  as  fresh  and 
flowing  as  a  newly-printed  sheet,  and  he  utters  his 
hi — hi — hi,  shouts,  screams,  applauds,  till  the  rafters 
ring.  No  matter  for  the  policeman,  he  may  rat-tat 
till  his  arm  drops  off,  the  boys  are  in  full  tide,  and 
they  shout  to  their  hearts'  content.  I  would  rather 
stand  the  ordeal  of  the  Newsboys,  were  I  to  write  a 
play,  than  any  other  audience  in  the  world. 

So  when  a  favorite  actress  appears,  the  heroine 
of  the  play,  with  her  full,  mature  charms,  and  superb 
robes — the  Newsboys  never  think  of  a  queen,  or  a 
beauty,  or  a  grand  woman  of  any  kind,  without  re 
viving  the  image  of  her.  Nothing  in  the  shape  of  a 
fine  lady  has  any  reality  to  them  except  the  fine  lady 
of  the  theatre ;  accordingly,  when  an  actress  has  once 
won  their  sympathies,  they  are  never  weary  with  ap- 


28  THE    NEWSBOY. 

plauding  her.  It  is  a  study  for  a  poet,  a  mine  of 
wealth  for  an  artist,  to  sit  where  he  can  look  into  the 
Bowery  or  Chatham  pit  and  watch  the  crowds  collect 
ed  nightly  to  witness  the  representation. 

Group  after  group  shamble  in,  (for  the  Newsboy 
is  eminently  social,)  and  dispose  themselves  along  the 
stiff,  hard  benches.  If  early,  they  sit  and  eat  pea  nuts, 
often  the  substitute  for  a  supper ;  one  who  can  read 
gives  out  the  substance  of  the  bill  for  his  companions 
in  a  voice  so  low  that  a  Broadway  dandy  might  take 
a  hint  in  good  breeding  from  the  Newsboy.  Others 
stretch  themselves  out  for  a  brief  nap,  and  the  exhaus 
tion  visible  in  the  faces  of  such  as  they  sink  almost 
upon  the  instant  to  forgetfulness,  tells  a  sad  story  of 
deprivation  and  endurance.  As  the  pit  fills  up,  care  is 
taken  not  to  disturb  the  sleepers,  the  boys  often  tak 
ing  the  heads  of  such  into  their  laps,  supporting  a 
stray  arm,  or  lifting  up  a  leg  and  placing  it  across 
their  knees  to  make  more  room.  It  is  pitiful  the 
tired  expression  of  these  sleepers.  You  look  at  them, 
so  thin,  so  like  little  old  men,  sharp,  eager,  self-re 
liant  when  awake,  and  then  when  sleep  comes  and 
the  muscles  relax,  and  the  over-taxed  nerve  yields  to 
inaction,  they  grow  children  again,  weary,  suffering, 


FAVORITE    HAUNTS.  29 

hard-wrought  children  they  look,  and  you  gaze  at 
their  emaciated  forms,  the  angular  shoulders  peeping 
from  the  ragged  shirt,  the  hollow  temple  and  thin 
nostril,  with  an  indescribable  pang.  You  feel  how 
pitiful  is  the  childhood  of  the  poor.  You  think  how 
afar  off  in  some  green  country  slope,  the  lambs  are 
sporting  by  the  hill  side,  the  blossoms  are  looking  out 
from  where  the  rock  casts  a  great  shadow  at  noon 
tide,  and  where  the  tree  spreads  out  his  kindly  arms 
inviting  the  weary  cattle  to  shelter ;  and  away  down 
in  the  valley  where  the  brook  gurgles  around  the 
"  fantastic  roots"  of  the  old  elm,  and  violets  cluster 
amid,  and  then  you  think  these  should  be  with  them, 
free  and  joyous  as  the  lamb — careless  as  the  blossoms, 
for  did  not  the  good  Saviour  bless  such  ?  did  he  not 
say  let  them  come  unto  me  ?  and  did  he  not  take 
them  in  his  arms  and  bless  them  ?  and  was  not  a 
benediction  from  his  holy  lips  an  injunction,  as  it 
were,  to  all  who  have  pure,  loving  hearts,  to  do  like 
wise  ? 

Anon  the  orchestra  strikes  a  prelude,  and  up 
come  the  Newsboys  at  a  dash,  and  they  give  out  a 
hearty  cry  of  delight.  The  Newsboys  are  a  "  fast"  set, 
and  don't  like  to  wait.  They  have  champed  apples, 


80  THE    NEWSBOY. 

they  have  cracked  pea -nuts  till  they  are  tired.  In 
deed,  if  you  close  your  eyes  and  peer  out  by  stealth 
and  look  where  the  policeman  leans  his  back  against 
the  ballustrade  of  the  orchestra,  his  two  elbows  over 
the  rails  and  his  rattan  sticking  out  over  the  boys' 
heads  in  front,  he  makes  you  think  of  a  cat  intent 
upon  an  army  of  mice,  and  the  champ  of  apples,  the 
crack,  crack  of  the  pea-nuts,  and  the  constant  drop 
ping  of  shells,  seem  like  the  suppressed  gnawing  of 
these  little  animals.  But  the  first  crash  of  the  orches 
tra  dispels  the  illusion,  for  such  a  shout  comes  only 
from  living,  beating  hearts  ;  away  go  the  pea-nuts,  off 
go  the  caps,  and  every  boy  sits  erect.  So  nerved  up 
do  they  become,  so  intense  in  their  attention,  that 
they  look  like  the  regular  ranks  of  a  field  of  corn, 
and  as  they  sway  to  the  passions  of  the  piece  it  is  as 
if  the  wind  moved  over  the  grain. 

As  the  play  goes  on,  and  their  interest  increases, 
their  shouts  are  deafening,  and  only  the  dread  of 
being  turned  out  by  the  police  induces  them  to  abate 
their  enthusiasm.  Between  the  acts  they  ply  the  pea 
nuts  again,  go  out  and  bring  in  eggs  ready  boiled  to 
eat,  or  they  play  at  fisticuffs,  rolling  each  other  about 
like  young  cubs.  One  has  ambitiously  inserted  an 


FAVORITE    HAUNTS.  31 

apology  for  a  pocket-handkerchief  into  his  jacket. 
"  Wipes,"  shouts  out  his  next  neighbor,  and  out 
comes  the  obnoxious  appendage,  and  its  owner  is 
seized  about  the  neck  every  few  minutes  for  the  next 
half  hour,  and  a  brisk  play  of  the  handkerchief  about 
the  nose  warns  him  to  avoid  in  future  any  superfluous 
appendage.  The  little  ones  now  lean  on  the  backs  of 
the  larger  boys,  hold  on  to  their  shoulders,  lie  down, 
and  continue  in  various  ways  to  rest  themselves  a  bit 
before  the  action  of  the  play  again  claims  their  in 
terest.  Yery  little  ill-humor  is  evolved;  there  is  a 
general  sentiment  of  good-fellowship  amongst  them, 
though  rude  jostlings,  bluff  salutes,  and  good-natured 
jeerings  are  not  wanting.  There  are  mock  imitations 
of  the  playing  also,  and  woe  to  the  youth  who 
shrinks  from  being  the  victim  of  the  occasion — he 
generally  sits  stolid  as  a  block  while  his  companions 
use  him  for  the  recipient  of  their  heroics  ;  but  his  in 
vention  is  silently  on  the  alert,  and  he  is  sure  to  re 
turn  the  annoyance  with  a  goodly  interest  also. 

Sometimes  there  will  be  a  slight  stir  and  commo 
tion  in  the  pit.  A  little  Newsboy  giggles  and  kicks 
and  struggles,  but  he  is  in  the  clutches  of  the  big 
Newsboy,  and  all  at  once  up  in  the  air  goes  a  pair  of 


82  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ricketty  slices,  and  a  scrubby  head  dangles  right  and 
left,  and  a  helpless  little  fellow  is  borne  on  the  palms 
of  his  companions,  held  high  above  the  head,  the 
whole  circuit  of  the  pit ;  another  and  another  pops  up 
in  the  same  way,  till  a  half  dozen  are  carried  around 
in  this  style  amid  shouts  of  applause  from  the  boxes. 
After  circling  the  area  each  is  thrust  down  as  by  a 
sort  of  hocus  pocus,  and  another  takes  his  place,  and 
so  the  game  is  kept  up  till  the  play  goes  on  again. 

Funny  names  come  up  from  the  pit  sometimes,  to 
which  their  owners  gravely  respond.  "  Carrots,  give 
us  a  "William,"  and  a  yellow-headed  boy  hands  over  a 
bill  for  the  evening.  "  Yoppy,  none  of  that,  or  I  '11 
pitch  into  you,"  and  you  cannot  but  see  that  Yoppy 's 
mouth  is  of  most  ample  size.  "  Squinty,"  "  Lopleg," 
"  One  eye,"  &c.,  are  as  readily  recognized  cognomens 
as  John  or  James. 

The  boys  love  fun  and  their  laughter  is  most  up 
roarious,  bat  they  have  a  decided  turn  for  tragedy. 
They  like  an  intense,  terrible  catastrophe,  scenes  in 
which  dirks,  and  pistols,  and  rifles  are  freely  used, 
and  a  sparring  episode  takes  them  by  storm.  Heated 
with  excitement  and  the  crowd,  they  rise  up  and  strip 
off  their  outer  garments,  eyeing  the  play  all  the 


FAVORITE    HAUNTS.  33 

while  ;  and  what  is  more  strange,  each,  boy  carefully 
folds  his  coat  or  jacket,  so  as  best  to  preserve  the  col 
lar  before  he  takes  it  for  a  cushion.  He  stays  the 
whole  entertainment  out,  however  long  it  may  be,  ap 
plauding  tragedy,  ballet,  contortionist,  a  stray  rat  that 
may  happen  to  cross  the  stage,  a  supernumerary  who 
comes  to  lay  down  a  carpet,  or  a  farce,  all  with  equal 
zest. 

As  you  look  at  the  Newsboys,  one  thing  will 
strike  your  attention.  There  is  no  appearance  of  vice 
amongst  them.  Nothing  skulking,  nothing  mean,  no 
thing  vicious  lurks  in  the  aspect  of  the  true  Newsboy. 
No  redness  of  the  eyes,  no  bloated  face,  no  pallid  de 
bauchery.  His  eyes  are  open  and  candid,  and  his  air 
as  free  from  the  braggart  as  the  coward.  Honor  to 

(the  self-reliant,  self-maintained,  honest  Newsboy. 

2* 


IV. 

(SHting   JiIjuJu 

SAM  took  our  little  Bob  at  once  under  his  own 
wing.  At  the  theatre  if  there  could  be  a  choice  in 
the  hard  side  of  a  pine -board  bench,  Bob  would  have 
had  the  soft  side.  His  pockets  were  crammed  with 
pea-nuts  and  apples,  and  being  an  observing,  excita 
ble  child,  the  "hi !  hi!  "  and  shouts  of  little  Bob  soon 
became  the  delight  of  the  pit.  He  was  the  youngest 
boy  there,  and  consequently  Sam  was  much  aided  in 
his  guardianship  by  the  sympathy  of  his  companions, 
who  were  greatly  amused  at  the  bold  air  and  round 
ready  oaths  of  the  young  Newsboy.  Truth  to  say, 
Bob  outstripped  his  teachers  in  this  line — his  finely 
cut  mouth  and  teeth,  like  a  young  alligator,  enabled 
him  to  give  a  peculiar  sonorousness  to  this  kind  of 


GETTING    AHEAD.  35 

vocabulary  ;  and  hardly  a  sentence  escaped  his  mouth 
that  was  n't  sharpened  up,  and  rendered  intense  by 
an  oath.  Bob  knew  no  better  at  this  period  of  his  ex 
perience.  He  heard  inflammatory  words  in  the  pulpit 
and  by  the  way-side.  He  was  of  an  earnest  make, 
and  common  language  would  not  suffice  him  at  this 
time  when  his  emotions  were  quite  beyond  his  utter 
ance,  and  his  aspirations  were  all  vague,  but  yet  sig 
nificant  of  the  future.  I  doubt  not  that  Bob,  as  we 
go  on,  will  learn  better.  When  he  has  something  real 
to  do — a  great,  earnest  achievement  before  him,  he 
will  not  expend  his  energies  in  unmeaning  exple 
tives.  The  Newsboy,  however,  unlettered  as  he  is, 
and  unused  to  any  moral  analysis,  never  associates 
any  idea,  either  good  or  bad,  with  this  species  of 
rhetoric,  but  regards  it  only  as  a  mode  of  heightening 
the  figures  of  speech. 

It  was  Bob,  hardy  little  Bob,  of  whom  the  story 
is  told — I  think  it  got  into  the  newspapers,  for  I  have 
often  repeated  the  story  as  proof  of  the  sturdy  indi 
vidualism,  and  unapproachable  self-reliance  of  Bob. 
He  was  crying  papers  at  the  foot  of  Broadway,  just 
where  it  dips  round  the  Battery,  and  where  the  poor 
weary  denizen  of  the  city  is  greeted  with  a  touch  of 


36  THE    NEWSBOY. 

woodland,  of  river  and  ocean,  and  sky  enough,  to  set 
his  heart  astir  with  the  soul  of  beauty.  Here  stood 
Bob  in  front  of  the  Atlantic  Hotel,  just  as  the  steamers 
arrived. from  the  east.  It  was  a  frosty  morning,  and 
a  light  fall  of  snow  rendered  the  stone  pavement  in 
tensely  cold,  and  Bob  rested  first  one  bare  foot  and 
then  the  other  upon  a  chip  while  he  sung  out  lustily, 
"  Tribune,  Times,  Herald,"  flirting  up  also  a  paper 
into  the  faces  of  the  passengers  as  they  doubled  the 
corner  from  the  steamer.  A  nice,  good  Puritan,  fresh 
from  down  east,  rested  his  carpet-bag  and  umbrella, 
(for  your  Yankee  always  carries  an  umbrella,)  against 
his  well-polished  boot  while  he  bought  a  Tribune,  and 
observed,  at  the  same  time,  the  bit  of  comfort  in 
which  Bob  had  indulged  his  naked  feet. 

"  Are  n't  your  feet  cold,  my  little  lad  ?"  he  asked 
in  a  friendly  voice. 

Bob  dropped  his  pennies  into  his  long  pocket, 
tucked  up  his  papers  under  his  arm,  and  answered  in 
dignantly,  "What  in  h— 1  is  that  to  you?"  for  he 
thought  the  question  an  impertinence. 

"What  a  terrible  young  reprobate!"  ejaculated 
the  gentleman,  as  he  buttoned  up  his  wrapper  and 
went  on. 


GETTING   AHEAD.  37 

Bob  looked  after  liim  wondering  what  he  could 
mean,  when  he  was  accosted  by  another — 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  my  lad,  the  way  to  Broadway  ?" 

"  Another  insult,  by  gorry,"  thought  Bob,  and 
quick  as  thought  he  touched  his  thumb  to  the  tip  of 
his  nose,  and  wheeling  his  fingers  in  the  air,  answered, 
"no  you  don't,  you  don't  come  it  over  this  child;" 
and  he  looked  back  and  relieved  himself  of  a  great 
laugh,  while  the  questioner  remained  standing  and 
looking  after  him  in  utter  amazement.  "  Just  as  if  he 
didn't  know  he  was  in  Broadway,"  thought  Bob, 
and  he  gave  an  extra  key  to  the'  compass  of  his  voice 
to  show  his  contempt  for  all  fooling. 

At  night  Sam  slept  tinder  the  City  Hall  portico, 
and  he  gave  little  Bob  the  warmest  corner,  and 
soothed  his  excited  nerves  by  some  droning  talk,  with 
a  tenderness  and  wisdom  worthy  of  a  woman.  At 
length  it  was  observed  that  Bob  had  very  nearly 
usurped  the  "beat"  of  Sam,  and  that  the  latter  was 
less  frequently  in  the  usual  rendezvous  of  the  News 
boys.  He  had  been  an  eager,  untiring  bay  in  all 
Newsboy  sports ;  nobody  had  pitched  a  copper  equal 
to  Sam  (for  the  Newsboy  is  fond  of  small  games  of 
chance) ;  nobody  tossed  a  ball,  or  reeled  off  a  story 


38  THE    NEWSBOY. 

equal  to  him.  He  was  the  impersonation  of  Newsboy 
good  fellowship  and  thrift — his  voice  the  loudest,  and 
his  laugh  the  merriest  of  the  craft,  while  he  swore 
with  a  freedom  and  grace  worthy  of  a  better  accom 
plishment.  But  now  Sam  had  become  strange  to  the 
craft.  He  was  rarely  seen  in  the  pit  of  the  theatre, 
and  his  time  was  much  of  it  passed  away  from  his 
companions.  The  boys  began  to  question  as  to  the 
matter,  but  Sam,  who  did  not  aim  at  concealment, 
soon  explained  all. 


y. 


SOME  two  or  three  years  before  our  story,  an 
grant  ship  landed  upon  the  dock  a  young  woman, 
with  a  girl  of  perhaps  a  dozen  years,  led  by  the  hand. 
The  vessel  had  been  decimated  by  the  ship-fever, 
and  poor  Catharine  with  her  child  had  escaped  after 
seeing  all  her  relatives  consigned  to  the  deep.  She 
had  neither  money  nor  friends  ;  she  was  pretty  and 
timid,  and  dreaded  to  have  her  condition  known. 
She  wandered  up  and  down  the  city  selling  one  arti 
cle  after  another  from  her  scanty  wardrobe,  till  de 
cency  forbade  further  sacrifice.  If  her  thoughts  wan 
dered  back  to  the  home  of  her  childhood,  they 
brought  back  only  images  of  suffering,  for  the  land 
lord's  extortion  and  the  famine  had  left  her  husband 
and  all  her  family  bankrupt  in  everything  but  warm, 


40  THE    NEWSBOY. 

generous  hearts.  She  had  no  pleasant  memories  of 
old  Ireland,  the  once  gem  of  the  sea,  the  green  isle  of 
beauty  and  of  song,  for  oppression  had  torn  away  her 
beautiful  robes  and  left  her  desolate.  Here  was 
Catharine,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land ;  and  after 
wandering  up  and  down  in  utter  despair,  she  crawled 
under  the  shelter  of  a  pile  of  boards,  weak  and  sick, 
and  expecting  to  die. 

Fever  and  exhaustion  had  benumbed  her  faculties, 
and  even  the  tears  and  carressings  of  her  child  failed 
to  arouse  her.  Mary  saw  the  gray  shadows  flit  over 
her  mother's  face,  and  her  instincts  told  her  it  was  the 
passage  of  the  angel  death,  whose  wing  played  upon 
the  thin  features.  Filled  with  terror  she  rushed  out 
and  seized  the  arm  of  the  first  passer  by — 

"  Come,"  she  cried,  "  for  the  love  of  mercy,  come ; 
my  mother  dies*" 

It  was  Sam  whom  she  addressed,  and  the  boy 
knelt  with  Mary,  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  did. 
The  dying  woman  lifted  herself  up  : 

"  Oh  !  sweet  Mary,  dear  Jesus,  is  there  no  pity  ?" 
she  cried.  And  she  spoke  no  more,  not  even  to  her 
child ;  but  there,  houseless  and  homeless,  went  forth 
to  our  "Father's  house  where  are  many  mansions." 


OUR   GAL.  41 

The  shrieks  of  the  child  were  frightful,  and  soon  a 
crowd  was  collected,  and  the  dead  was  removed  to  a 
patch  of  earth,  and  the  child  left  utterly  alone.  She 
was  cared  for  by  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  those  angels 
of  ministry  for  the  desolate,  but  Mary  refused  to  go 
with  them  till  Sam  had  promised  to  accompany  her, 
for  his  was  the  first  face  that  had  looked  kindly 
upon  them ;  and  Sam  did  go  to  the  Asylum,  and 
permission  was  granted  him  to  come  again  and 
again. 

Here  was  a  new  element  in  the  life  of  Sam.  It  did 
not  alter  him  much,  it  may  be,  for  a  long  period,  but 
the  bit  of  leaven  was  there,  waiting  the  fitting  time  to 
leaven  the  whole  man.  Sometimes  he  did  not  go  to 
the  Asylum  for  many  months,  and  then  an  irresisti 
ble  desire  to  see  the  little  orphan  would  compel  him 
to  the  portal ;  but  not  till  he  had  scrubbed  long  at  the 
hydrant,  and  put  himself  into  his  best  trim,  and  then 
a  plant,  a  flower,  a  ribbon, — something  must  be 
found  for  a  gift  to  Mary.  And  thus  years  passed 
away,  and  at  night  when  Sam  laid  his  head  upon  his 
arm,  and  that  upon  the  cold  stone,  his  heart  grew  warm 
in  thinking  of  a  sweet  face,  and  a  little  shape  growing 
every  day  more  lovely ;  and  then  it  was  all  so  nice, 


42  THE   NEWSBOY. 

so  warm  and  comfortable  about  the  orphan,  that 
this  made  up  a  part  of  the  delight  in  thinking  of 
her. 

When  Sam  took  Bob  under  his  protection,  he 
often  spoke  mysteriously  of  "  Our  Gal,"  and  little  Bob 
learned  that  there  was  something  upon  Sam's  mind 
which  he  did  n't  comprehend.  Sometimes  he  would 
say,  "  Our  Gal  grows,  Bob  ;  she  grows  every  day, 
Bob ;"  and  then  he  would  rub  his  hands  as  he  sat  on 
the  bench  in  the  City  Hall  Park,  fronting  where  the 
water  was  made  to  come,  but  does  n't,  slowly  rubbing 
his  hands  over  his  slender  legs,  and  looking  into  the 
face  of  little  Bob  now  and  then,  in  a  very  solemn 
manner.  Then  he  would  be  gone  many  hours,  and 
when  he  next  rested  after  the  labors  of  the  day,  Sam 
would  be  deeply  absorbed. 

"  Our  Gal  is  goin'  to  be  a  scholard,"  he  would 
say ;  and  sometimes,  in  the  love  scenes  of  the  play, 
poor  Sam  in  the  pit  would  be  greatly  agitated,  and 
would  whisper  to  Bob, 

"  That's  like  our  Gal,  blame  me  if  it  is  n't." 

Often  when  Sam  laid  himself  to  sleep  visions 
came  and  went,  strange  but  beautiful,  for  love  is  no 
respecter  of  persons,  and  where  he  makes  his  ad- 


OUR    GAL.  43 

vent,  whether  it  be  with  prince  or  beggar,  lie  showers 
his  roses  as  freely  over  the  ragged  gabardine  as  over 
the  jewelled  robe.  So  it  was  with  Sam  year  by  year, 
and  the  little  orphan  became  his  teacher,  and  learned 
to  wait  his  coming,  and  to  greet  him  with  a  welcome 
that  many  an  aching,  defrauded  heart  might  have  en 
vied. 

"Our  Gal  is  pious,"  ejaculated  Sam  one  day. 
"  Bob,  I  wishes  you  could  see  our  Gal,  and  hear  her 
talk  so  small,"  and  Sam  felt  a  tear  roll  down  his  face, 
which  he  took  upon  the  end  of  his  thumb  and  eyed 
suspiciously,  but  it  prevented  him  from  saying  more 
at  that  time. 

One  day  Sam  helped  Bob  to  an  extra  ablution  at 
the  hydrant,  the  pockets  of  each  were  filled  with 
boiled  eggs,  crackers,  &c.,  and  they  took  the  steamer 
for  Staten  Island.  Neither  talked  as  they  went  down 
the  noble  bay,  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  for 
Sam  was  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  and 
our  Bob  being  naturally  taciturn,  unless  deeply  ex 
cited,  kept  close  to  his  arm  in  silence.  The  two  boys 
wandered  about  in  the  same  manner,  now  gathering  a 
wild  blossom,  and  now  stopping  to  look  at  the  sump 
tuous  houses  of  the  rich  Staten  Islanders.  Passing 


4A  THE    NEWSBOY. 

one  of  these  they  looked  through  a  gate  where  a 
miniature  lake  was  hedged  about  with  shrubbery,  and 
a  fairy -like  boat  with  silken  streamers  floated  by  the 
marge.  A  pair  of  stately  swans  sailed  out  of  their 
covert,  curving  their  long  slender  necks  with  queenly 
pride.  The  boys  looked  on  with  amazement,  totally 
ignorant  of  what  they  were.  At  length  two  young 
girls  appeared  and  tossed  bits  of  bread  to  the  birds, 
and  scattered  crumbs  at  their  feet  till  a  brood  of 
doves  came  to  gather  them  up.  It  was  a  sweet  pic 
ture  of  innocence  and  wealth,  nature  and  art,  and  the 
two  houseless  boys  looked  on  with  an  interest  in 
which  no  self  commingled.  To  Bob  it  was  no  more 
than  a  show  picture  upon  the  curtains  of  a  theatre. 
To  Sam  it  brought  up  the  image  of  Mary. 

"Our  Gal  is  handsomer  nor  them,  she  's  gallus, 
I  tell  you,"  said  Sam,  turning  to  go  ;  and  Bob  looked 
into  his  face,  for  the  first  time  comprehending  that 
"  Our  Gal  "  meant  a  living  creature. 

They  wandered  on  till  they  came  to  a  secluded 
nook  at  the  lower  end  of  the  island,  where  the  broad 
sea  stretches  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  a  grove  of 
trees  rendered  it  a  most  sheltered  and  beautiful  re 
treat.  The  sight  of  the  ocean  to  a  boy  is  always  a 


OCR   G-AL.  45 

rompting  for  a  swim,  and  here  Sam  gave  Bob  his 
irst  lesson  in  the  art.     He  was  an  apt   scholar,  and 
needed  little  teaching,  being,  as  he  said,  "  Sea-born." 

As  the  sun  began  to  shoot  his  golden  arrows 
athwart  the  branches  of  the  trees  they  were  admon 
ished  to  return. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  have  our  Gal  come 
with  us,  Bob,"  asked  Sam,  with  unwonted  animation. 
"  Fust  rate,"  cried  Bob,  without  knowing  anything 
about  the  matter. 

And  Sam  and  Mary,  with  the  sanction  of  the 
good  Sisters,  did  go,  but  Bob  was  n't  asked.  On  their 
way  to  the  steamer,  Sam  in  a  new  suit  encountered 
nany  of  his  companions,  who  after  nodding  at  him 
amiliarly  as  they  went  by,  stopped  looking  after 
hem  till  they  doubled  the  next  corner,  and  then 
aving  relieved  themselves  by  a  prolonged  whistle, 
tvent  on  to  sell  their  papers  and  tell  what  they  had 
een. 

From  that  time  Sam  became  invested  with  awe 
Doth  in  the  eyes  of  Bob  and  his  companions.  He  ap- 
peared  more  rarely  in  the  pit  of  the  theatre,  and 
vhen  he  did  so,  his  manner  was  more  quiet  than  in 
brmer  times.  He  and  Bob  might  often  be  seen  lean- 


46  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ing  over  the  rails  of  the  Battery  looking  down  into 
the  water  for  hours.  Bob  looked  there  because  Sam 
did,  and  Sam  was  thinking  of  a  soft  touch  of  a  dear 
hand,  or  a  low  voice,  and  his  vision  was  of  a  world 
hidden  to  other  eyes. 

After  one  of  these  long  intervals  of  silence,  Sam 
one  night  took  the  hand  of  little  Bob  in  his,  and  lay 
ing  it  on  his  old  coat  over  his  heart,  the  child  felt  its 
great  beats  with  a  shudder. 

"It's  cause  of  our  Gal,"  said  Sam  solemnly.  Bob 
could  only  look  at  his  companion,  he  didn't  know 
what  to  say.  "  They  want  her  for  a  Nun,"  continued 
Sam,  "  and  they  tells  her  she  '11  be  crowned  with 
the  stars,  and  have  a  white  robe,  and  such  flum 
mery." 

Bob  did  n't  laugh,  why  should  he  ?  Sam  did  n't 
mean  irreverence,  he  talked  as  best  he  knew. 

Sam  said  no  more  at  this  time,  but  shortly  after 
as  the  boys  in  the  pit  looked  up  to  the  second  tier 
they  saw  Sam  sitting,  very  pale,  beside  a  fair,  modest 
girl,  who  wept  more  than  the  pathos  of  the  play 
would  seem  to  justify.  The  Newsboys  felt  instinct 
ively  that  Sam  was  hard  beset  with  some  trial,  and 
they  did  not  teaze  him. 


OUR    GAL.  47 

"  That 's  our  Gal,"  thought  Bob,  looking  at  Sam 
with  a  very  commiserating  countenance. 

"  Sam 's  taken  in  and  done  for,"  whispered  anoth 
er  to  his  companions. 

"  It's  all  up  with  Sam,"  ejaculated  a  third. 

Kollocking,  flashy  Jack,  half  sailor,  half  News 
boy,  one  of  those  magnetic  characters  which  attract 
and  repel  as  does  the  serpent,  rolled  out  a  big  oath, 
and  darted  for  the  second  tier  of  boxes.  "  Blast 
my  eyes,  I  do  believe  he's  got  spliced,"  he  cried 
on  his  way  out,  and  the  Newsboys,  with  supreme 
disgust,  looked  up  from  the  pit  and  saw  him  lean 
ing  over  and  gazing  familiarly  into  Mary's  face. 
Sam's  face  grew  red,  but  the  boys  gave  way  to  a  low 
hiss.  The  audience  thought  the  actors  were  hissed, 
but  Jack  knew  better,  and  he  doubled  up  his  fist  and 
shook  it  defiantly  below.  The  boys  hissed  again  and 
shouted,  "  Turn  him  out,  turn  him  out,"  but  as  the 
police  saw  nothing  they  only  struck  their  rattans 
sharply,  and  peace  was  restored. 


VI. 

®Ip  fast  ion*. 

IT  was  true  Mary  had  left  the  Asylum  notwith 
standing  the  vigilance  of  the  good  Sisters,  and  a 
priest  had  pronounced  them  "one  in  the  holy  bonds 
of  matrimony."  Soon  a  small  room  in  a  third  story 
in  Anthony  street  received  sundry  little  furnishings, 
and  when  Sam  and  Mary  went  to  the  Sisters  and  im 
plored  their  forgiveness,  and  begged  them  sometimes 
to  come  and  see  them  and  guide  them,  they  relented 
and  helped  them  in  many  ways.  The  Newsboys  also 
were  very  proud  of  "  Our  Gal,"  as  they  all  called 
Mary,  and  not  one  of  them  that  did  n't  venture  at 
some  time  to  call  upon  her,  and  to  present  her  with 
some  pretty  testimonial  of  regard. 

Mary  was  so  gentle,  so  sweet  and  loving,  and 
withal  so  orderly,  that  the  little  third  story  room 


THE    LAST   BOUND.  49 

seemed  to  the  unsophisticated  Newsboys  no  other 
than  a  heaven.  When  they  went  there  they  prepared 
themselves  as  if  for  a  sacrament,  and  what  "Our 
Gal  "  said,  and  how  "  Our  Gal  "  looked,  was  long  the 
theme  of  talk  amongst  them.  Some  thought  it  had 
been  the  ruin  of  Sam,  who  was  too  happy  to  be 
boisterous,  and  flashy  Jack  declared  "  Our  Gal  had 
made  a  spooney  out  of  him,"  yet  upon  the  whole 
there  was  a  general  sentiment  of  approval  amongst 
the  boys. 

Bob  was  the  favorite  guest,  nothing  more.  He 
was  now  amply  able  to  look  after  himself;  and  unless 
a  woman  is  concerned,  a  Newsboy  is  apt  to  think  a 
roof  altogether  a  superfluity.  Indeed,  many  of  the 
boys  as  they  leaned  against  a  stack  of  bricks  in  the 
twilight,  or  sat  upon  the  benches  in  the  Battery,  were 
apt  to  commiserate  the  condition  of  Sam  as  being 
little  less  than  an  imprisonment. 

One  morning  Bob,  in  the  course  of  his  duty, 
found  opportunity  to  go  in  the  vicinity  of  Sam's 
room.  The  latter  recognized  him  with  a  hearty 
shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  face  in  which  you  could  n't 
hardly  say  which  wanted  most  to  show  itself,  a  smile 
or  a  tear.  Seizing  Bob  by  the  hand  and  stooping 


50  THE    NEWSBOY. 

half  down  and  pointing  as  if  the  object  were  small 
like  a  bird,  he  cried, 

"There  she  goes — see  her,  our  Gal;  look  at  her 
feet,  pat,  pat,  tat,  pat,  tat,  just  like  a  pigeon — see  her 
go  so  nippent— and  that  are  shawl  hugged  into  her 
little  back — blast  me,  Bob,  if  I  don't  believe  she 's  one 
of  the  angels  come  down  out  of  a  picter  I  saw  once 
up  in  the  Apollo." 

Then  Sam  took  Bob  up  the  three  pair  of  stairs 
and  showed  him  bits  of  comfort  that  looked  like 
luxuries  to  his  untutored  eyes.  There  was  a  loaf  of 
bread  of  Mary's  make,  nicely  covered  with  a  napkin  ; 
there  were  pretty  garments  hanging  to  the  wall,  but 
the  grand  triumph  seemed  to  be  a  nicely-starched  and 
ironed  shirt,  upon  which  Mary  had  just  sewed  a  but 
ton. 

"  She  did  it,  Bob ;  them  small  pickers  of  her  'n 
went  into  the  suds,  I  tell  ye  ;  and  look  here — there 's 
her  little  basket,  a  sticker  for  pins  and  needles,  them 
scissors,  that  strawberry,  all  no  bigger  than  your  fist ; 

and  there's  her  d d  little  thimble — "  At  this 

climax  Sam  dissolved  into  a  flow  of  tears,  in  which  he 
was  aided  and  abetted  by  Bob. 

Nearly  a  year  passed  away,  and  Sam,  and  Bob 


THE   LAST    BOUND.  51 

and  all  the  Newsboys  were  learning  to  love  and  rev 
erence  Mary  as  something  super-humanly  good  and 
lovely — one  to  whom  they  went  for  numberless  little 
womanly  offices;  for  "  wasn't  Our  Gal  one  of  them? 
Wasn't  it  natural  that  she  should  tell  them  not  to 
swear?  and  wasn't  it  natural  that  she  should  sew 
a  rent  for  one,  and  make  a  cap  for  another?  and 
was  n't  it  natural  that  they  should  carry  everything 
that  was  pretty  to  her  ?  and  was  n't  it  natural  that 
they  should  buy  books,  and  they  should  all  sit  round 
and  hear  her  read  them  ?  and  if  one  of  them  got  sick, 
wasn't  it  natural  that  Our  Gal  should  make  some 
warm  tea,  and  keep  them  all  night  in  her  little  room, 
for  did  n't  they  all  love  her  ?  and  was  n't  it  natural 
that  Sam  should  be  the  proudest  boy  alive,  loved  as 
he  was  by  Our  Gal  ?" 

But  a  change  came,  as  change  will  come  to  high 
and  low.  It  was  rumored  that  poor  "  Sam  was  struck 
right  down--*knocked  clean  over  like  a  butcher's  ox," 
the  boy  said.  Bob  hastened  to  the  side  of  his  friend. 
He  was  met  at  the  door  by  Sister  Agnace,  whose  pale 
sweet  face  wore  a  heavenly  calm  always,  and  the  tear 
upon  it  now  made  it  only  the  more  lovely. 

"  Our  little  lamb  has  gone  to  the  fold  of  the  Good 


52  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Shepherd,"  she  said,  and  drew  aside  a  sheet  that 
screened  the  bed.  There  was  Mary,  pale  but  beauti 
ful,  sleeping  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking  in  this 
world ;  and  on  her  bosom,  sleeping  the  same  sleep,  lay 
a  little  babe,  hardly  divided  from  its  mother.  The 
long  dark  lashes  that  always  seemed  to  brood  lov 
ingly  over  her  eyes,  scarcely  more  than  shaded  them 
now,  the  blue  outline  being  painted  upon  the  trans 
parent  lid.  Time  had  not  yet  matured  her  girlish 
beauty,  and  the  sweet  mouth  and  round  cheek  were 
soft  and  smiling  as  in  life. 

Sam  was  stretched,  upon  the  floor  by  the  bedside  ; 
at  the  movement  of  the  door  he  started  up  and  recog 
nized  Bob. 

"  Our  Gal,"  lie  ejaculated — lie  could  say  no  more, 
for  the  gushing  tears  which  now  for  the  first  time 
came  to  his  relief.  The  good  Sister  brought  him 
food  and  put  back  the  damp  hair  from  his  forehead, 
all  the  time  repeating  her  prayers  in  a  low  voice, 
which  had  the  effect  to  soothe  the  sufferer. 

Bob  looked  at  poor  little  Mary  and  her  child ;  he, 
child  as  he  was,  and  his  great  heart  could  not  hold 
back  its  grief — lie  wept  aloud ;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  thousand  times  he  had  seen  men  and  women 


THE    LAST    BOUND.  53 

lying  just  so  cold  and  stiff,  and  a  thousand  times  he 
had  wept  in  agony,  but  never  before  had  he  seen 
death  beautiful.  Always  before  he  had  worn  a 
ghastly  aspect,  as  full  of  terror  as  of  awe  ;  but  now  all 
was  peaceful,  and  fair,  and  gentle,  as  if  a  dear  one  had 
gone  home  suddenly,  or  as  if  the  angels  had  looked 
in  and  carried  away  one  of  their  kind;  and  the 
tears  he  shed  came  from  the  holiest  and  tenderest 
chamber  of  his  heart.  It  did  n't  seem  strange  to  him 
that  Sam  could  n't  swallow  even  a  drop  of  water ;  and 
when  Sister  Agnace  bathed  his  cold  white  temples,  and 
repeated,  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.  I  will  send  the  Comforter, 
and  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  from  their  eyes,"  little 
Bob  did  not  wonder  that  Sam  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and 
kept  them  fixed  so  long  upward.  He  did  n't  wonder 
that  he  said,  "  Oh,  the  night  is  so  dark — Mary — Mary, 
darling,  Sam's  a  dying,  he  is."  And  when  Sister 
Agnace  laid  his  head  back,  and  loosened  his  throat, 
and  sprinkled  water  in  his  face,  Bob  grasped  his  poor, 
cold,  hard  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  called  him  loudly 
by  name, 

"  Sam,  Sam,  good,  kind  Sam,  open  your  eyes." 
And  Sam  did  open  them,  and  whispered  smilingly, 


64:  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"  Sam 's  got  through — he  's  goin'  on  a  long  beat — 
Sam 's  cried  his  last  paper,  Bob.  Our  Gal  's  a  callin' 
of  him — she 's  a  callin'  of  me,  Bob,"  and  the  News 
boy's  "latest  arrival,"  was  to  an  unseen  world.  Life 
went  out  with  him,  when  Mary  died.  His  enjoy 
ments  were  few,  his  hopes  and  his  desires  limited  to 
the  being  of  the  fair  child  who  had  been  the  one  star 
in  his  dim  sky.  "When  that  set,  there  was  in  this 
world  no  light  of  the  sun,  or  moon,  or  any  star  to 
him.  All  was  blank — he  could  only  die.  And  so  the 
only  love  that  came  to  his  great  heart,  broke  it  also. 

Sister  Agnace  held  the  cross  to  his  lips,  and  the 
dying  boy  kissed  it  reverently.  He  smiled  when  she 
repeated  the  prayers  for  the  dying ;  and  when  she  laid 
her  thin,  pale  hand  over  his  heart,  she  felt  its  pulse 
beat  an  Amen  as  the  Amen  fell  from  her  own  lips. 


VII. 

iaptism  0f  tire  |p£toslj0ij. 

THE  death  of  Sam  and  Mary  produced  a  great 
shock  amongst  their  companions.  They  had  been 
greatly  beloved — the  circumstances  of  their  death 
were  whispered  amongst  them  with  suppressed  voices. 
As  they  entered  the  little  room  where  the  three  were 
lying  in  their  early  death — they  so  young,  who  had 
known  so  much  of  suffering — they  with  neither  fath 
er  nor  mother,  nor  kindred  of  any  kind  to  mourn 
them — they  who  had  known  the  only  heaven  this 
side  the  unseen  heaven,  a  one  pure,  all-absorbing,  all- 
devoted  love  for  each  other — they,  the  young  pair, 
loving  with  a  love  for  which  kings  would  barter  their 
thrones,  and  wise  men  and  poets  lay  aside  their  fame — 
they  so  honored,  so  ennobled  by  this  love,  lowly 
though  they  were,  unlettered  though  they  were,  de- 


56  T  H  E    N  E  w  s  B  o  y . 

spised  though  they  were  by  tlie  rich,  and  the  power 
ful,  but  wept  over  by  hearts  who  could  not  estimate 
the  value  of  the  tribute  they  bestowed,  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  lot  of  Sam  and  Mary  was  one  of  peculiar 
and  especial  blessedness. 

When  it  was  told  that  Sam  died  piously  with 
prayers,  and  low-chanted  hymns,  and  his  lips  upon 
the  cross,  the  Newsboys  felt  there  was  something  holy 
and  appropriate  therein,  but  whether  Sam  was  Catho 
lic  or  Protestant  they  did  n't  know  nor  ask.  They 
felt  somehow — they  could  not  define  how — it  was  well 
with  him  ;  they  felt  somehow,  he  and  Mary  must  live 
together  somewhere.  And  often  as  a  Newsboy  whis 
tled  along  the  Battery,  or  stood  where  some  building 
was  being  removed,  the  passer-by  might  have  thought 
him  attracted  by  the  sudden  array  of  placards  which 
had  sprung  up  there  in  the  night ;  the  Jonas'  gourds 
of  a  metropolis,  but  his  eyes  saw  nothing  of  the  no 
tices  for  Theatres,  Concerts,  Fat  Boys,  Menageries, 
and  Dwarfs,  or  Mass  Meetings  to  be  held  in  the 
Park,  Lectures  at  Hope  Chapel — he  saw  nothing  of 
all  this,  although  the  letters  were  a  foot  in  length,  and 
staring  him  full  in  the  face.  No,  he  thought  of  Sam, 
the  dead  Newsboy,  and  "  Our  Gal,"  and  a  wee  babe, 


BAPTISM    OF   THE    NEWSBOY.         57 

and  lie  was  trying  to  think  where  they  might  be  now, 
and  wondering  how  they  might  be  employed,  for  he 
had  loved  the  little  Newsboy  family  deeply ;  and  were 
it  not  for  the  deep  love  in  our  hearts,  we  should 
never  seek  to  know  of  the  life  everlasting,  but  those 
who  love  most  deeply  and  truly  are  the  ones  whose 
faith  is  most  assured  that  the  good  Father  would  n't 
give  us  to  hunger  and  thirst  for  everlasting  life,  if  that 
life  did  not  await  us. 

Sister  Agnace  watched  all  night  with  the  dead, 
and  as  hour  after  hour  she  knelt  in  the  dim  room, 
still  and  nearly  as  pale  as  the  dead,  her  hands  meekly 
crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  lips  in  prayer,  the 
cold  light  of  the  stars  trembled  upon  her  head,  and 
left  a  star  upon  her  brow ;  and  another  gleamed  upon 
the  brows  of  the  children,  and  you  would  have  said 
that  Sam  was  as  beautiful  as  Mary,  for  now  the  holy 
love  that  had  so  leavened  his  heart  came  out  and 
showed  itself  upon  his  face,  where  was  no  longer  the 
look  of  care  and  suffering  which  had  marked  it  in 
life. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  Bob,  who  had  sat  for  hours 
with  his  face  buried  between  his  knees,  laid  his  head 

upon  the  side  of  the  bed  and  slept,  and  the  good  Sis- 

3* 


58  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ter  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  his  brow,  and  felt  how 
damp  and  cold  it  was ;  then  she  arose  from  her  knees 
and  bathed  it  gently,  and  once  as  she  parted  the  hair, 
a  tear  fell  upon  it.  I  do  not  know  but  I  have 
thought  the  tear  of  that  Sister  of  Charity  might  have 
been  the  baptism  of  Bob.  It  glistened  there  in  the 
pale  gray  light  as  the  morning  came,  and  when  the 
sun  looked  in  it  was  still  there,  and  he  softly  carried 
it  to  heaven,  where  it  became  a  gem  to  be  set  in  the 
immortal  coronal  of  the  good  Sister.  Perhaps  an 
angel  descended  to  see  from  whence  it  came,  for  it 
was  the  first  pitying  tear  that  had  ever  fallen  upon 
the  child's  head,  it  was  the  first  prayer  that  had  ever 
entered  heaven  in  his  behalf;  and  now  that  tear  and 
that  prayer  had  made  an  entrance  for  him  there,  and 
'Bob  was  no  longer  a  stranger  in  celestial  spheres. 

One  by  one  as  the  day  dawned  the  Newsboys 
came  in  with  their  bundles  of  papers  and  stood  and 
looked  at  the  group ;  some  stood  long  and  wept ; 
others  brushed  away  a  tear  with  the  ragged  sleeve 
and  then  went  out,  but  all  that  day  the  voices  of  the 
boys,  as  they  cried  their  papers,  were  husky  and 
hoarse.  The  Sisters  of  Charity  set  bread  and  water 
for  those  who  would  eat.  A  meeting  of  the  craft 


BAPTISM    OF    THE    NEWSBOY.         59 

was  held  in  the  Park,  when  it  was  decided  to  bury 
the  bodies  in  Greenwood,  and  the  Newsboys  would 
walk  in  procession.  As  they  arranged  their  plans  the 
enthusiasm  increased,  and  Flashy  Jack  declared  they 
would  "  do  the  thing  up  brown,"  there  should  be  no 
"  scrimping."  It  was  decided  to  provide  carriages 
for  the  occasion,  and  eventually  a  monument  should 
be  built. 

Accordingly,  upon  the  third  day  the  little  third 
story  room  was  vacant  of  its  occupants.  A  string  of 
carriages  moved  slowly  along  Broadway,  and  a  long 
array  of  boys,  quaintly  habited,  but  all  hushed  and 
orderly,  followed  in  procession.  They  went  down 
Broadway,  keeping  to  the  right,  and  reverently  the 
stages,  drays,  innumerable  vehicles  and  foot  passen 
gers,  left  a  pathway  for  them.  There  is  jostling  in 
Broadway,  loud  oaths,  and  fierce  cracking  of  whips — 
but  the  hearse  is  never  jostled — the  black  wheels  of 
the  hearse  are  not  interlocked — there  are  no  execra 
tions  and  no  whips  discharged  upon  the  hearse-man ; 
drive  faster  is  never  shouted  in  the  ears  of  the  car 
rier  of  the  dead.  Slowly  he  moves  onward,  slowly 
the  procession  follows,  silent  and  causing  silence 
wherever  they  come. 


60  THE   NEWSBOY. 

The  ferry-boat  to  Brooklyn  is  crowded,  nurses 
are  there  with  children — pale,  sickly  children,  crossing 
back  and  forth  for  a  breath  of  the  sweet  air  coming 
over  the  sea.  Men  of  traffic,  of  toil,  and  of  profess 
ion,  artists  with  pen  or  pencil,  laborers  with  spade, 
and  hod,  and  tin  pail  in  which  they  had  carried  their 
dinner.  Fair  women  of  fashion  or  pleasure ;  sewing 
women,  bent  and  sickly ;  laundresses  with  baskets  of 
linen  ;  school  boys  and  girls — there  is  a  motley  mass 
of  all  ages  and  conditions,  and  the  murmur  of  many 
voices  is  heard  in  a  low  continuous  hum.  Slowly  the 
hearse  rolls  over  the  bridge,  it  casts  its  dark  shadow 
over  the  gay  group,  and  stands  a  black  spot  in  the 
midst.  Instantly  all  is  hushed,  and  the  boat  moves 
on  with  its  dead  and  living  freight,  all  equally 
silent. 

And  so  the  Newsboys'  procession  moved  along  the 
streets  of  Brooklyn,  around  the  pretty  Bay  of  Growan- 
nus,  and  entered  the  silent  city,  the  city  so  reverent 
and  beautiful  for  the  resting  of  the  dead,  and  so  at 
tractive  to  the  living — where  the  wild  bird  may  build 
its  nest  and  sing  secure ;  the  squirrel  leap  from  tree 
to  tree,  nor  dread  the  hunter ;  and  the  fish  leap  in 
the  sunlight  untempted  by  bait,  and  ignorant  of  hook 


BAPTISM    OF    THE    NEWSBOY.         61 

and  line.  And  there  they  disposed  decently  the  re 
mains  of  the  Newsboy  and  the  young  mother,  and 
not  long  after  a  neat  stone  arose  bearing  the  simple 
inscription  of  "  The  Newsboy  and  Mary." 


VIII. 


AND  now  Bob  was  onco  more  alone  in  the  world 
with  no  one  to  whom  he  could  look  for  those  words 
of  kindness  and  looks  of  sympathy  which  brighten 
the  waste  places  of  earth.  The  Newsboys  each  re 
turned  to  their  usual  round,  and  he  was  left  to  him 
self.  Flashy  Jack,  more  than  any  others,  sought  him 
out,  and  seemed  bent  upon  establishing  a  relationship 
between  them  ;  and  Bob  with  his  big  heart  and  social 
instincts  was  little  likely  to  repel  him.  Jack  could 
read  and  write,  he  was  handsome,  gay  and  off-hand, 
and  these  qualities  always  pass  for  more  than  they  are 
worth.  Jack  had  an  air  that  no  other  Newsboy 
could  emulate,  he  sold  papers  as  much  for  the  love  of 
it  as  for  any  desire  of  gain.  He  often  went  down  the 
bay  with  the  pilots  of  the  port  ;  for,  being  a  ready 


FLASHY   JACK.  63 

sailor,  and  a  light-hearted  youth,  from  whose  tongue 
rolled  off  the  jest,  or  oath,  or  negro  song,  all  with 
equal  ease,  he  had  become  a  general  favorite. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  New  York  pilot  boats  are 
the  finest  afloat,  the  best  adapted  to  speed  as  well  as  to 
the  rough  service  they  are  often  called  to  perform. 
It  is  n't  the  taking  a  ship  out  of  the  harbor  down 
by  the  headlands,  and  reefs,  and  shoals,  that  render 
navigation  dangerous ;  or  the  bringing  her  in  with 
gallant  canvas  spread,  and  cordage  in  sailor-like 
trim,  her  very  scuppers  kissing  the  water's  edge  with 
her  heavy  freightage,  that  constitutes  the  arduous 
duties  of  the  pilot.  Far  from  this.  I  know  of  no 
thing  so  welcome  as  the  cheerful  hail  of  the  pilot  as 
you  approach  soundings.  Hundreds  of  miles  at  sea, 
the  waves  lashed  to  fury,  the  sleet  and  rain  chill 
ing  to  the  bone,  you  see  a  light,  graceful  boat,  so  trim, 
so  diminutive,  that  it  seems  a  miracle  how  she  wea 
thers  the  rough  encounter  of  wind  and  wave,  making 
down  upon  you.  Down  she  sinks  behind  a  moun 
tain  wave,  and  you  think  she  is  gone ;  up  she  comes,  a 
crest  upon  the  next  billow,  riding  it  as  if  she  laughed 
at  the  tempest  and  loved  the  conflict,  "  like  a  thing  of 
life" — onward  she  sweeps,  her  white  sails  set,  and  the 


64  THE    NEWSBOY. 

number  painted  in  great  black  letters  to  show  that  she 
is  only  one  of  many  such.  Now  she  sends  out  a 
very  egg-shell  of  a  boat;  now  the  pilot  climbs  the 
deck,  shakes  himself,  buried  as  he  is  in  his  shaggy 
coat,  his  hair  dripping,  and  his  cheeks  red  from  the 
blast.  He  stamps  heavily,  shakes  out  his  coat,  gives 
the  officers  of  your  vessel  a  gruff,  hearty  greeting,  dis 
tributes  newspapers ;  tells  of  the  great  fire,  or  terrible 
riot,  which  are  always  coming  off  in  New  York ;  takes 
the  quarter  deck,  and  you  perceive  at  once  that  "  our 
Captain,"  who,  a  moment  before,  was  the  greatest 
autocrat  alive,  has  doused  his  colors,  and  yielded  all 
into  the  hands  of  the  pilot. 

Away  goes  the  pilot  boat,  careering  over  the 
waves,  and  soon  it  is  only  a  speck  upon  the  water ; 
and  now  it  is  gone,  and  you  give  it  a  God-speed,  for 
you  know  that  the  sight  of  the  pilot  boat  is  a  glad 
one  to  the  mariner  nearing  his  destination,  and  you 
know  it  has  gone  to  perform  a  like  office  for  another 
wayfarer. 

Flashy  Jack  would  be  gone  for  days  upon  these 
excursions,  for  his  adventurous,  half- vagrant  charac 
ter,  delighted  in  the  brief  period  of  peril,  and  nobody 
roared  out  with  a  greater  zest  the  "  Bay  of  Biscay," 


FLASHY   JACK.  65 

or  gave  more  point  to  the  ballad  of  Captain  Kidcl. 
Then  his  whistle  of  Nelly  Blye,  and  Lucy  Neal,  was  a 
perfect  master-piece  in  kind,  and  enough,  the  sailors 
said,  to  call  up  a  wind  in  the  worst  of  calms. 

Sometimes  Flashy  Jack  would  work  for  days  on 
board  of  the  lighters,  jesting,  whistling  and  singing, 
the  admiration  of  sailor  as  well  as  "  land  lubber ;"  and 
when  weary  of  this,  his  fine  rich  voice  would  sound 
the  length  of  the  street  crying  the  morning  papers. 
The  Newsboys  were  right  glad  to  have  Jack  amongst 
them,  for  he  always  seemed  to  give  a  start  to  the 
business,  and  showed  them  so  many  ways  in  which 
a  penny  could  be  turned,  that  one  would  think  nothing 
could  equal  his  invention. 

A  new  arrival,  and  the  issue  of  extras,  is  a  God 
send  to  the  Newsboy.  Then  they  scramble,  and 
scream,  and  crowd  to  get  the  first  supply.  Then  they 
hang  like  a  black  cloud  around  the  door  of  the  print 
ing  offices,  reminding  you  of  a  hive  of  bees  in  swarm 
ing  time,  when  the  new  colony  cling  in  a  great  bunch 
at  the  mouth  of  the  hive,  rolling  over  and  over,  crawl 
ing  about,  flying  and  returning  till  the  queen  bee 
gives  the  signal  of  readiness. 

A  disaster  by  flood  or  fire  gives  opportunity  for 


66  THE   NEWSBOY. 

pithy  and  sometimes  terrible  announcements.  They 
contrive  to  twist  the  most  unmanageable  words  into  a 
sort  of  rhythm,  and  scream  out  the  catastrophe  in  a 
cadence  that  might  shame  the  puny  sing-song  of  the 
pulpit 

The  days  of  cheap  literature  were  great  days  for 
the  Newsboys.  Upon  the  announcement  of  a  new 
work,  there  was  jostling  and  screaming ;  lungs  did 
good  service  in  that  day,  and  woe  to  the  author  whose 
book  did  n't  sell  all  off  in  three  days ;  not  a  Newsboy 
would  touch  it  on  the  fourth.  Inquire  for  it,  they 
thought  you  behind  the  age,  looked  at  you  as  if  you 
must  have  just  come  from  Noah's  Ark ;  thought  you  a 
flat,  a  spooney,  and  they  ejaculated,  "  that,  Sir,  that — 
why  that  book  is  three  days  old,"  and  it  was  evident 
they  felt  disgust  at  the  question. 

Three  days  !  well,  that  is  the  modern  immortality, 
and  in  this  "  fast"  age,  who  shall  say  that  any  one  of 
us  has  a  right  to  monopolize  public  interest  any  long 
er  than  this?  The  sunshine  comes  new  every  day, 
the  blossoms  are  content  to  bloom  as  the  ephemera 
lives ;  the  bird  sings  many  of  its  kind,  and  the  sea 
casts  her  shells  and  pearls  to  the  shore — trifles  all,  but 
beautiful. 


FLASHY  JACK.  67 

For  some  time  after  the  death  of  Sam,  the  society 
of  the  careless,  good-natured  Flashy  Jack,  relieved 
Bob  from  his  own  too  oppressive  thoughts,  and  sug 
gested  a  free  and  easy  joyousness  quite  seductive  to 
one  of  his  easy  temperament.  Jack  had  a  fund  of 
anecdote  about  him,  great  stories  of  murders  and  rob 
beries,  of  shipwrecks  and  disasters,  of  hair-breadth  es 
capes,  and  terrible  fights,  that  enchained  the  attention 
of  his  companions  for  hours.  He  had  confused  moral 
ideas,  but  there  was  something  generous,  frank,  and 
joyous  about  him,  that  made  his  bright  crimson  waist 
coat,  and  striped  pantaloons  and  jaunty  cap  look  ap 
propriate  ;  and  whether  he  slung  a  black  silk  handker 
chief  over  his  neck  in  sailor  style,  or  went  with  his 
throat  all  open,  in  the  Newsboys'  eyes  Jack  could  n't 
help  looking  handsome,  for  his  hair  had  a  saucy  curl, 
and  his  black  eyes  went  well  with  the  dimples  in  his 
cheeks  and  chin.  People  bought  papers  of  Flashy 
Jack  just  for  the  sake  of  taking  a  second  look  at  his 
bright  face,  and  to  hear  him  say  in  his  sonorous  voice 
some  old  jest  that  seemed  new  by  the  way  in  which  it 
was  told. 

Jack   knew  everybody   and   everything.      There 
was  n't  an  alley  nor  nook  in  the  great  city  into  which 


68  THE    NEWSBOY. 

he  had  not  penetrated.  He  had  a  keen  observation, 
and  many  a  time  the  police  had  got  a  clue  to  some 
outrage  they  were  trying  to  trace  home  to  its  source, 
by  some  old  memory  suddenly  revived  in  the  mind 
of  Flashy  Jack.  He  knew  all  the  women  who  kept 
apple  stands  at  the  corners  of  the  streets,  and  there 
was  n't  one  of  them  that  would  n't  toss  him  an  apple 
or  a  cake  in  return  for  his  good-natured  impudence, 
and  all  the  soda  women  in  Fulton  street  refused  his 
coppers  when  he  took  a  glass  at  their  tables.  Many 's 
the  time  Jack  had  cried  "hot  corn"  for  the  little  girls 
at  night,  and  sent  them  home  with  empty  pails. 
He  'd  turn  match  vender  any  time,  if  the  child  looked 
weary  or  disheartened — he  was  ready  for  a  fight,  al 
ways  in  aid  of  the  weak  party.  In  truth,  the  gener 
ous  instincts  of  Flashy  Jack  were  better  than  other 
people's  virtues. 

Of  a  rainy  day  he  would  help  the  little  girls  who 
swept  the  crossings — laugh  at  their  dirty  faces,  till 
they  learned  to  "spruce  up,"  because  of  "that  little 
devil,  Flashy  Jack."  He  knew  them  all,  and  tossed 
them  coppers,  "just  by  way  of  model  to  them  poor 
sneaks  what  go  up  and  down  Broadway,  shined  up  to 
kill,  and  all  too  deuced  mean  to  give  a  penny  to  a 


FLASHY    JACK.  69 

slip  of  a  gal,  that  had  n't  a  second  rag  to  her  back." 
Flashy  Jack  said  this,  and  things  of  the  like,  in  a 
manner  as  if  it  hurt  him  to  not  be  allowed  "  to  pitch 
at  once  into  such  folks." 

Cold  winter  mornings  Flashy  Jack  "turned  to" 
and  helped  the  miserable,  shivering  women  and  chil 
dren  who  searched  over  the  coal  ash  heaps  in  vacant 
lots,  and  in  barrels  and  tin  kettles  left  for  the  dust 
man  to  take  away,  that  they  might  get  something  to 
supply  a  little  heat.  Oh !  Jack  had  funny  things  to 
say,  and  kind  things  to  say,  and  ten  to  one  they  found 
pennies  in  the  coal,  and  then  there  was  a  time  indeed, 
and  nobody  looked  more  strange  about  it  than  Jack 
did ;  and  when  the  women  and  children  went  away  to 
cook  their  scanty  breakfast,  they  carried  home  some 
thing  like  a  smile,  and  the  cold  morning  was  n't  half 
so  cold  as  they  had  thought  it,  and  the  old  hood 
was  warmer  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  and  the  old 
brown  shawl,  crossed  over  the  breast  and  tied  in  a 
knot  behind,  had  grown  wondrously  in  comfort.  Oh  I 
they  all  knew  Flashy  Jack,  "  the  darling  rascal  that 
he  was." 

Jack  knew  all  the  "sporting   men  about  town." 
In  his  ignorance  more  than  one  was  quite  a  hero  in 


70  THE    NEWSBOY. 

his  eyes.  Jack,  open- hearted  and  generous  himself, 
saw  something  handsome,  and  strong,  and  brave  in 
this  rude  aspect  of  life ;  and  to  be  generous,  kind,  and 
courageous,  was  the  sum  of  Flashy  Jack's  moral 
creed.  My  readers  must  decide  whether  it  was  a 
broad  or  a  narrow  creed. 

Then  there  were  various  games  in  which  Jack  ex 
celled.  He  was  fond  of  a  boat,  and  fond  of  a  dog,  not 
as  a  companion  merely,  but  as  gratifying  this  pro 
clivity  of  his  to  the  sporting  line.  "  I  ought  to  be 
happy,"  he  would  say,  "for  I  have  the  smartest  and 
smallest  black  and  tan  terrier  in  the  city."  This  ani 
mal's  ears  were  cut  to  the  very  acme  of  terrier  point, 
making  her  look  as  keen  as  a  needle,  and  pert  as  a 
fox ;  and  Jack  said,  "  as  to  her  narrative,  it  is  bit  off 
till  it  is  n't  a  circumstance  of  a  narrative."  This  dog, 
named  Yic,  was  the  pride  and  glory  of  Flashy  Jack's 
life.  He  would  pinch  and  pull  her,  and  make  her  fly 
at  him  and  bark  a  perfect  fury,  he  all  the  time  laugh 
ing  like  mad ;  and  when  he  was  tired  of  the  sport,  he 
would  open  his  bosom  and  the  little  creature  would 
crawl  in,  and  lie  buttoned  up  close  to  Jack's  heart  for 
hours.  He  made  heavy  bets  upon  Yio,  sure  to  win, 
for  "she  was  death  on  rats,"  as  he  said;  his  triumph 


FLASHY    JACK.  71 

always  being  wound  up  with,  "Oh!  she's  game  I 
tell  ye,  she  '11  fight  like  blazes  —  come  here  Vic," 
and  he  stowed  her  away  in  his  bosom,  bloody  as 
she  was  from  her  encounter  with  the  rats. 


IX. 


So,  what  with  Flashy  Jack  and  his  little  Vic,  and 
the  perpetual  casings  and  comfortings  of  time,  Bob 
began  to  hold  up  his  head  stronger  than  ever.  He 
was  never  carried  out  of  himself,  magnetic  as  Flashy 
Jack  always  was,  and  all-powerful  as  his  influence 
was  over  others.  Jack  would  punch  him  in  the  sides 
and  call  him  old  man,  and  "take  him  about,"  but 
Bob  was  not  the  less  himself.  "  Blast  me  if  Bob  is  n't 
Bob,  and  nothing  but  Bob,"  Jack  would  exclaim  in  a 
sort  of  vexed  mirth,  after  making  sundry  attempts  to 
indoctrinate  him  into  some  of  his  own  modes  of  life. 
Bob  had  a  code  of  morals,  very  old,  very  safe,  and 
very  respectable.  This  code  was  written  upon  the 
heart  in  the  first  creation  of  a  man,  and  a  little  voice 
like  the  faintest  ticking  of  a  watch,  was  placed  beside 


A    SHORT    CHAPTER.  73 

it,  that  kept  repeating  all  the  time  "  do  right/'  "  do 
right;"  you  couldn't  tell  it  from  the  beating  of  your 
own  heart  if  you  had  always  obeyed  its  monition ;  but 
sometimes  when  the  man  gets  old  and  respectable,  the 
tick  becomes  loud  and  strong,  like  the  clock  behind 
the  door,  or  upon  the  broad  landing  of  the  stair-case ; 
it  is  a  long  swing,  as  though  it  swept  over  the  black 
columns  of  the  ledger,  along  the  brief  of  the  law 
yer,  and  over  the  leaves  of  the  minister's  sermon, 
do  right,  do  right,  slow  and  solemn.  There  is 
a  shade  of  severity  in  the  voice,  something  bordering 
upon  judicial  condemnation  ;  and  if  you  can  look  into 
the  man's  face  you  will  observe  him  wince,  and 
glance  at  the  clock  as  if  it  might  tell  something. 

Then  again  this  little  monitor  is  put  to  hard  duty. 
The  blood  boils,  it  is  red,  and  green,  and  black,  and 
thunders  through  the  heart  as  if  it  would  burst  its 
walls.  Oh  !  the  little  monitor  then  has  to  scream,  and 
cry,  and  shout,  if  it  would  be  heard,  and  even  then 
her  loudest  shriek  prolonged  till  she  is  nearly  dead, 
DO  EIGHT,  is  hardly  heard  for  the  tumult  of 
that  Moscow  bell  of  human  passions ;  and  the  little 
monitor  is  buried  under  the  ruins  of  the  crash,  and 
scarcely  again  does  she  recover  her  voice. 


74  THE    NEWSBOY. 

But  Bob  liad  this  consciousness  ;  he  heard  a  small, 
still  voice  repeating  always  "do  right,"  and  he  listened 
and  obeyed ;  he  wondered  whence  it  came,  the  mean 
ing  he  did  n't  pretend  to  understand,  but  he  obeyed 
its  monitions  as  best  he  could.  His  code  might  not 
pass  current  in  law,  theology,  or  popular  morals,  but 
it  answered  a  good  purpose  to  Bob.  When  Jack 
stopped  at  the  porter  house  for  a  glass  of  lager  beer 
and  offered  Bob  "  a  treat,"  he  always  declined. 

"It's  agin  my  nater,  Jack,"  he  would  say  as  a  sort 
of  apology  for  not  being  "  agreeable  to  it;"  and  as 
Jack,  growing  older  and  loving  excitement,  craved 
year  after  year  a  stronger  stimulant,  he  could  never 
prevail  upon  the  Newsboy  to  join  him. 

"It's  agin  my  nater,  Jack,"  he  would  go  on  to 
say,  "  and  I  've  observed  them  what  likes  these  inside 
heaters  al'ays  comes  out  wrong.  It's  my  opinion 
they  ain't  of  no  use.  So  as  to  a  plug  of  tobaccy,  I 
does  n't  incline  to  it.  My  nater  is  n't  that  way.  A 
chaw  makes  me  sick  as  the  deuce,  and  a  smoke  goes 
agin  me.  I  'se  better  without  'em,  Jack." 

Then  Jack  gave  him  a  great  thump  on  the  back, 
stuck  out  one  leg  and  gave  a  whirl  round  on  the 
other,  crying  out,  "You'll  do,  you  little  rascal— you '11 


A    SHORT    CHAPTER.  75 

do,  when  poor  Jack  has  had  his  last  drop — drop  !  did  I 
say  ?  Bob,  that 's  an  ugly  word,"  and  he  shuddered 
all  over. 

Bob  knew  little  of  the  private  history  of  Flashy 
Jack,  for  the  Newsboys  do  not  care  much  for  the 
antecedents  of  their  companions ;  but  he  knew  that 
Jack  sometimes  went  down  to  Blackwell's  Island, 
where  the  prisoners  move  about  like  monsters  more 
than  men,  in  their  light  gray,  particolored,  uncouth 
garments,  reminding  you  of  an  army  of  Calibans. 
Then,  too,  he  seemed  familiar  with  all  the  officers  and 
turnkeys  of  the  Tombs,  who  nodded  him  familiarly, 
and  sometimes  said  to  him, 

"  Look  out,  Jack,  or  you'll  be  coming  here  too." 
*  When  there  was  to  be  an  execution  in  the  yard  of 
the  Tombs,  Flashy  Jack  was  admitted  to  witness  the 
awful  ceremony,  by  the  connivance  of  the  officers,  be 
cause  he  told  Bob  in  a  sort  of  confidential  undertone, 
"  The  old  man  swung  there." 

Bob  knew  he  meant  his  father,  but  as  he  had  no 
very  definite  ideas  as  to  what  was  comprised  in  that 
relationship,  he  wasn't  much  shocked  at  the  an 
nouncement,  nor  surprised  that  the  circumstance 
should  entitle  Flashy  Jack  to  peculiar  favor. 


X. 

$  Sains  gas. 

I  BEGIN  a  new  chapter  here,  because  what  I  have 
to  record  in  this  and  subsequent  pages,  was  a  sort  of 
turning  point  in  the  history  of  the  Newsboy,  and  we 
all  know  there  are  eras  in  our  own  destiny  to  which 
we  look  back  and  put  as  it  were  a  finger  upon  the 
spot  and  say,  "  then  had  I  done  thus  and  so  it  nad 
been  better  for  me  always  ;"  or  it  may  be  we  say,  "  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  I  chose  exactly  right  then  ; 
had  I  chosen  otherwise,  my  whole  life  had  suffered 
blame."  Blind  and  faithless  creatures  that  we  are! 
In  the  one  case  we  are  wilfully  blind  and  deaf,  and 
though  a  thousand  voices  cried  "  forbear,"  we  would 
not  listen.  In  the  other,  your  good  angel,  made 
strong  by  your  own  prayers,  or  it  may  be  the  prayers 
of  a  mother,  (in  the  whole  universe  God  himself 


A   EAINY   DAY.  77 

holds  nothing  more  omnipotent  than  a  mother's 
prayers  in  behalf  of  her  child,)  wafted  and  sustained 
by  these,  turned  the  heaven  of  her  face  upon  you, 
and  you  could  not  choose  do  other  than  you  did. 
She  made  the  voice  of  the  little  monitor  within  sweet 
and  appealing  in  her  whispered  "  do  right,  do  right," 
till  you  saw  your  mother's  eyes  and  heard  your  moth 
er's  voice  through  her,  and  you  grew  twice,  yea  ten 
times  a  man  from  the  brief  conflict. 

Bob  had  grown  exceedingly  fond  of  Flashy  Jack. 
His  careless,  rollicking  life,  sometimes  on  sea  and 
sometimes  on  land,  "  keeled  up"  on  a  bench  in  the 
Battery,  sleeping  on  board  of  a  canal  boat,  or  an  old 
Hudson  river  sloop,  and  now  under  an  awning  or  a 
stoop,  betting,  swearing,  working  or  fighting,  the  one 
with  as  much  zest  as  the  other,  so  attractive  that  Bob 
was  gradually  falling  into  the  same  way.  Now 
Flashy  Jack  had  nerves  of  the  cast  iron  stamp — they 
were  hardy,  though  excitable ;  the  black  tinge  in 
them  made  them  tough  and  enduring;  while  Bob, 
born  of  more  delicate  clay,  with  but  little  of  the  black 
in  his  veins,  naturally  sympathetic  and  meditative,  was 
likely  to  suffer  the  most  terrible  exhaustion  from  what 
barely  gave  Flashy  Jack  an  agreeable  exhilaration. 


78  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Bob  and  Flashy  Jack  had  once  joined  the  police 
in  hunting  for  a  miserable  wretch  who  had  committed 
a  robbery.  Both  the  boys  gave  a  loud  shout  as  they 
confronted  him  just  plunging  into  Bedford  woods 
on  the  Brooklyn  side.  Flashy  Jack  screamed  and 
shouted,  and  followed  on  with  the  instinct  of  a  blood 
hound,  but  Bob  caught  sight  of  the  hunted  man,  and 
one  glance  was  enough.  He  saw  the  broad  chest 
bared  to  the  wind,  heaving  with  superhuman  strug 
gles,  the  veins  of  the  throat  red  and  distended,  the 
perspiration  falling  in  floods  from  the  bare  and  ex 
hausted  temples,  and  nothing  could  induce  him  to 
track  further  the  miserable,  hard-beset  offender;  and 
when  he  at  length  doubled  and  passed  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Bob,  he  could  not  forbear  to  point  to  a 
clump  of  bushes  into  which  he  crawled,  and  the  pur 
suers  passed  on  in  another  direction.  Bob  carelessly 
approached  the  spot,  and  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
relieve  his  pockets  of  their  small  amount  of  coin.  He 
didn't  know  whether  he  did  right  or  wrong.  "The 
rich  houses  have  so  many  things  they  don't  need," 
he  thought  to  himself.  The  man  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Youngster,  I  swear  to  God  I  '11  lead  an  honest 
life  after  this,  because  of  what  you  Ve  done." 


A   EAINY   DAY.  79 

And  then  Bob  felt  relieved  in  his  mind  as  to  the 
course  he  had  taken.  He  never  confessed  the  circum 
stance  to  Flashy  Jack,  and  as  the  man  was  not  ar 
rested,  it  is  to  be  hoped  he  kept  his  promise.  But 
the  scene  wrought  powerfully  upon  the  mind  of  the 
Newsboy. 

"I  wish  I  was  posted  up  on  the  meaning  of 
things,"  he  would  say  again  and  again  to  Jack,  but  as 
the  latter's  moral  science  was  not  well  denned,  he 
could  afford  little  aid  to  Bob. 

"  I  guess  if  we  see  all  that 's  a  goin'  on,  and  al'ays 
pitch  in  to  help  the  weak  side,  we  '11  come  out  about 
right  in  the  long  run,"  Jack  would  say,  at  the  same 
time  giving  his  bushy  curls  a  smarter  turn,  and  pois 
ing  his  cigar  between  his  second  and  third  fingers, 
while  he  cocked  back  his  head,  and  watched  the 
smoke  issue  slowly  from  his  red  lips,  that  were  just 
shaded  by  a  soft  moustache,  and  a  dot  of  an  imperial. 

Little  Bob  gazed  at  him  all  the  time,  and  though 
his  aid  in  a  moral  point  of  view  was  rather  question 
able,  the  beauty  of  Jack  did  not  fail  of  its  effect. 
"  Blame  me,  Jack,"  he  would  say,  "  if  you  ain't  as 
handsome  as  the  wax  figures  in  the  windows,"  and 
Jack  could  n't  fail  to  be  proud  of  the  praise. 


80  THE    NEWSBOY. 

It  was  a  cold  rainy  morning.  Flashy  Jack  had 
told  Bob  he  had  an  engagement  for  him  at  the  Tombs, 
and  he  had  gone  with  him  over  his  beat  in  order  to 
facilitate  the  sale  of  his  papers,  that  he  might  be  ready 
in  time.  The  weather  had  been  very  fair,  for  it  was 
the  season  of  roses,  and  all  along  the  upper  part  of 
the  city  the  air  had  been  filled  with  their  perfume. 
But  now  a  cold  storm  of  rain  had  set  in,  and  you 
would  have  thought  it  November  rather  than  June. 
The  wind  swept  along  the  awnings,  and  shook  them 
as  if  bent  to  tear  away  the  fastenings.  The  great 
signs,  lashed  by  iron  rods  to  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
along  the  Bowery,  gave  out  solemn  groanings  by 
starts,  as  if  all  at  once  they  thought  to  wrench  them 
selves  away,  and  then  they  settled  down  into  a  hoarse 
creak,  determined  to  wait  till  the  irons  were  rusty, 
and  then  down  they  would  come  upon  the  head  of 
some  passer-by.  The  little  square  signs,  hung  out  like 
banerets,  jerked,  and  swung,  and  twisted  themselves 
in  the  wind,  but  the  bolts  were  too  strong  for  them. 

The  second-hand  clothes'  men  in  Chatham  Street 
stood  cross-legged  .in  their  doors,  despairing  of  cus 
tom.  Women  with  frouzly  heads  lolled  over  the 
counters,  and  gossipped  with  their  neighbors.  Chil- 


A   RAINY   DAY.  81 

dren  were  sailing  paper  boats  and  hickory  nut-shells 
in  the  gutters,  shouting  with  delight  as  the  little 
barques  weathered  the  eddying  current  of  the  filthy 
stream.  Poor  things !  born  to  fish  in  muddy  waters ; 
the  first  freightage  of  life  consigned  to  an  impure 
channel ;  but  they  boded  nothing,  and  laughed  and 
shouted,  happy  as  the  child  whose  dainty  fingers 
touch  only  the  filtered  bath,  and  the  delicate  finger- 
glass. 

The  stage  drivers,  coated  in  India-rubber,  had  a 
brisk  time  of  it,  for  nobody  would  walk  in  such  a 
storm  who  had  a  sixpence  to  spend.  The  railway- 
cars  were  crowded  to  suffocation,  but  the  people  were 
silent,  as  they  are  apt  to  be  in  cities  in  all  cases  of  dis 
comfort.  It  is  only  in  the  country,  where  there  are 
broad  acres,  and  open  skies,  and  but  few  inhabitants, 
that  people  are  privileged  to  vent  their  ill  humor  and 
spleen  under  petty  annoyances  to  the  ears  of  others. 
Then,  too,  it  was  Friday,  and  Friday  has  got  to  being 
called  "hangman's  day"  in  the  Bowery,  in  Broad 
way  "executioner's  day,"  in  our  churches  "  Good  Fri 
day,"  as  indicating  the  benign  efficiency  of  the  atone 
ment,  when  Jesus  is  said  to  have  died  on  Friday.  It 

is  regarded  as  an  unlucky  day  by  high  and  low,  and 

4* 


82  THE   NEWSBOY. 

sailors  do  not  like  to  go  to  sea  on  a  Friday,  and  brides 
will  not  go  to  the  altar  on  a  Friday. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  Friday,  and  a  dismal  storm 
it  was.  And  as  the  two  boys,  Flashy  Jack  and  Bob, 
came  down  the  Bowery  drenched  with  the  rain,  and 
kept  onward  to  Centre  street,  they  saw  that  all  the 
buildings  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Tombs  were 
covered  with  a  dense  mass  of  people,  a  good  propor 
tion  of  them  women,  with  all  eyes  turned  in  that 
direction.  Now  this  massive  granite  building,  built 
upon  an  Egyptian  model,  has  of  itself  something 
grand  as  well  as  forbidding  about  it.  Its  original  name 
was  the  "  Hall  of  Justice,"  but  whether  people  doubted 
as  to  the  propriety  of  the  name  coupled  with  the  pro 
ceedings  there,  or  whether  its  mausoleum  aspect  sug 
gested  a  readier,  more  appropriate,  and  shorter  cogno 
men,  I  know  not,  but  the  term  Hall  of  Justice  sounds 
now  cockneyish  and  affected,  as  the  universal  designa 
tion  of  this  great  prison  is  the  Tombs. 

It  faces  Centre  street,  one  of  the  great  thorough 
fares  of  New  York,  nearly  as  broad  and  commodious 
as  Broadway,  with  which  it  is  parallel.  A  stranger 
would  be  apt  to  think  that  in  a  democratic  city,  two 
streets,  separated  only  by  two  or  three  hundred  feet, 


A    KAIJSTY    DAY.  83 

would  contain  a  population  much  akin ;  but  if  he 
should  visit  the  Bowery,  or  Centre  street  even,  with 
this  expectation,  he  would  be  greatly  astonished  at  the 
result  of  his  observation ;  for  the  denizens  of  Broad 
way  and  the  Bowery  are  as  unlike  as  the  population 
of  France  and  Germany.  It  is  n't  mere  wealth  that 
makes  the  distinction,  but  habits  and  culture  also. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen  (heaven  spare  the  mark !)  are 
supposed  to  frequent  Broadway,  while  the  "b'hoys" 
and  "  g'hals"  frequent  the  Bowery.  A  Bowery  dog, 
even,  never  encroaches  upon  Broadway  any  more  than 
the  women  and  men  do  so ;  and  two  young  ladies 
having  crossed  from  Broadway  to  the  Bowery  in 
girlish  curiosity,  were  accosted  in  a  sort  of  side-speech 
by  the  "  Bowery  Gals  "  with,  "  What  are  them  Broad 
way  Gals  in  the  Bowery  for  ?"  as  though  their  com 
ing  might  be  a  misdemeanor. 

The  Bowery  gals  and  boys  are  handsome,  impu 
dent,  and  free-spoken.  They  dress  in  a  dashing  style, 
love  bright  colors,  sharp  terriers,  and  fast  horses.  Out 
on  the  avenues  even  the  children  learn  to  detect 
them,  and  when  some  red-cheeked  "  Lize"  and  daring 
"  Mose"  come  out  in  their  smart  riding  gear,  with  a 
troop  of  their  friends,  all  in  fancy  buggies  with  cant- 


84  T  H  E     N  E  W  S  B  O  Y  . 

ering  horses,  the  children  shout,  and  set  on  the 
dogs,  "Tray,  Blanche,  Sweetheart,  and  all  the  little 
dogs,"  screaming,  "there  go  the  Bowery  gals  and 
boys." 


XL 


"  THE  TOMBS"  are  built,  as  I  said,  to  face  Centre 
street,  and  near  the  converging  focus  of  a  number 
of  streets  of  ill  repute,  comprising  the  noted  Five 
Points,  the  St.  Antoine  and  St.  Giles  of  New  York. 
It  was  a  bright  thought,  that  of  locating  a  prison  in 
the  midst  of  evil  doers,  to  admonish  them  perpetually 
that  "  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard." 

The  site  of  the  building  was  formerly  a  pond, 
known  as  the  "  Collet,"  and  tradition  preserves  many 
wonderful  stories  of  strange  monsters  inhabiting  the 
Collet.  It  was  a  deep  black  pool,  overflowed  at  high 
tides,  the  borders  fringed  with  low  bushes  and  trees 
of  various  kinds.  At  one  time  it  was  rumored  to  be 
the  resort  of  an  enormous  serpent,  that  came  out  from 
the  centre  and  was  seen  to  move  towards  the  sea. 


86  THE    NEWSBOY. 

While  New  York  was  in  possession  of  the  British,  a 
Hessian  soldier  one  night  alarmed  the  whole  garrison 
by  his  cries  of  alarm,  at  the  approach  of  this  monster. 
On  examination  of  the  ground  there  was  the  appear 
ance  as  if  a  heavy  log  had  been  drawn  over  the 
sedges  and  grass  from  the  side  of  the  pond  to  the  East 
river. 

It  is  further  related  that  once  upon  a  time  some 
young  boys  were  amusing  themselves  about  the  Col 
let,  when  one  of  them  cried  out  "  come  here,  come 
here."  They  all  gathered  to  the  spot,  and  there  found 
up  near  a  large  branch,  but  clinging  to  the  body  of  a 
tree,  a  creature  so  nearly  of  the  appearance  of  the  bark 
itself,  that  it  was  scarcely  distinguishable  therefrom ; 
a  creature  that  gave  them  full  time  to  examine  him. 
He  was  more  than  a  foot  in  length,  of  a  lizard  shape, 
his  long  hands  clinging  fast  to  the  tree,  and  his  tail 
curved  partially  round  a  twig.  His  eyes  were  red 
and  fiery,  and  the  boys  declared  they  emitted  sparks 
like  old  Nick  himself.  But  the  strangest  part  was  a 
pair  of  filmy  bat-like  wings,  which  he  kept  moving 
up  and  down,  producing  a  rapid  current  of  air.  The 
boys  stayed  around  him  for  several  hours,  and  called 
on  others  to  see  the  strange  beast,  but  forebore  to  mo- 


"THE    TOMBS."  87 

lest  liim.  They  never  saw  him  but  this  once.  Tur 
tles,  lizards,  and  snakes  of  all  sizes  were  numerous  in 
the  pond.  So  you  will  see  that  from  the  first  the 
spot  was  black  and  marshy,  and  evil  in  its  signifi- 
cancy,  being  a  prophecy  of  its  moral  destiny. 

In  the  olden  time,  a  beautiful  brook  occupied  what 
is  at  present  called  Canal  street,  the  bed  of  which, 
now  covered  with  an  arch,  and  paved  over  for  the 
street,  constitutes  one  of  the  great  sewers  of  the  city ; 
one  of  those  subterranean  viaducts  infested  by  rats, 
and  reeking  with  all  that  is  revolting  to  the  senses. 
This  beautiful  brook  was  one  of  the  outlets  of  the 
Collet,  where  the  Tombs  now  stand. 

In  the  first  history  of  the  city,  the  poor  and  the 
miserable,  as  well  as  those  of  evil  tendencies,  congre 
gated  about  the  low  marshy  grounds  of  the  Collet, 
and  thus  the  crooked  streets  were  always  damp  and 
uninviting,  till  the  place  became  morally  as  well  as 
naturally  pestiferous.  The  city  enlarged  itself — she 
spread  forth  her  arms  to  the  breezy  heights  of  Har 
lem — she  embraced  the  farm  houses  of  Chelsea,  the 
old  thoroughfare  of  Great  Jones  street,  even  the  es 
tate  of  old  Governor  Petrus  Stuyvesant,  the  redoubt 
able  Dutch  Governor,  whose  gallant  spirit  refused 


88  THE   NEWSBOY. 

submission  to  British  authority,  who  turned  his  back 
upon  "New  Amsterdam,"  and  went  out  into  the  coun 
try  that  he  might  never  be  witness  of  the  degrada 
tion  of  his  favorite  colony  ;  even  his  fine  old  home 
stead  was  taken  in.  The  banks  of  the  North  and  the 
East  rivers  were  occupied  to  the  water's  brim,  a  forest 
of  masts,  and  a  wilderness  of  brick  and  mortar,  and 
yet  there  still  remained  this  leprous  spot  in  the  heart 
of  the  city. 

If  you  would  bring  up  images  to  curdle  the  blood 
and  redden  the  cheek  with  shame,  you  had  but  to 
name  the  Five  Points.  Thank  God !  our  people  are 
coming  to  see  that  missionaries  have  a  work  to  do  at 
home,  and  they  are  stirring  this  dead-sea  pool  with  a 
divine  healing.  Hungry  people,  too  lazy  to  work, 
will  rob  and  steal.  The  miserable  outcast,  famishing 
for  lack  of  bread,  stung  with  remorse,  lost  to  himself 
and  the  world,  will  drown  his  misery  in  heavy  pota 
tions — cursing  God  and  man  because  of  his  degrada 
tion. 


XII. 

J5  2  m  &  ff  1  s , 

FEOM  tlie  first,  this  locality  was,  as  I  have  said, 
evil-haunted.  There  did  not  seem  room  for  an  an 
gel's  footfall,  so  fully  was  every  nook  and  cranny  oc 
cupied  by  spirits  of  darkness.  It  seems  as  it  were  a 
great  basin  whose  sides  are  brick  and  mortar,  into 
which  is  poured  all  the  nauseous  drainage  of  the 
higher  thoroughfares.  Its  inhabitants  were  filthy, 
drunken,  and  apparently  beyond  all  hope,  and  the 
children  appalled  you  with  their  preternatural  vicious- 
ness. 

The  scene  is  altered  now,  though  much  is  yet  to 
be  done.  I  have  been  there  and  seen  the  change; 
seen  these  children  sitting  in  their  right  mind,  with 
holy  hymns  upon  lips  but  lately  given  to  obscenity 
and  blasphemy.  The  first  thought  was,  "How  old 
they  look!"  They  were  keen,  sharp-looking  chil- 


90  THE    NEWSBOY. 

dren,  as  if  they  were  all  born  old.  They  were  pre 
cociously  intellectual — few  of  them  were  brutal  look 
ing,  but  all  had  a  strong  intellectual  expression,  that 
might  easily  cover  a  cold  cruel  nature.  Some  had 
great  wild  eyes,  others  sly  alert  ones.  Some  had  a 
look  of  profound  melancholy,  and  all  were  more  or 
less  diseased. 

The  old  -Brewery  has  disappeared,  and  it  is  one  of 
the  things  for  which  we  should  bless  God  fervently. 
Time  had  long  worked  at  the  old  timbers  and  creak 
ing  stairs,  as  if  to  say  to  men,  "  come,  help  me  in  this 
work ;"  and  the  pestilence  had  cried,  "  take  away 
these  reeking  floors,  these  walls  saturated  with  moral 
malaria,  or  I  shall  walk  forth  from  these  precincts  to 
tread  the  halls  of  the  palace." 

Is  there  no  other  place  akin  in  this  great  city  of 
New  York,  from  whence  a  like  cry  may  go  forth  ? 

Overlooking  all  this  region,  itself  vast,  lofty  and 
forbidding,  the  windows  immense,  and  the  heavy 
granite  columns  massive  and  tall,  the  whole  an  echo- 
less  quarry  of  cold,  impitying  stone,  so  great  and  yet 
looking  small,  stand  the  Tombs.  The  building  is  a 
Sphinx,  and  looks  low,  and  yet  is  high.  The  heavy 
entablature  with  its  sunken  lights ;  the  deep  recesses 


"THE    TOMBS."  91 

and  projecting  cornices ;  the  walls  broad  based  and  re 
ceding  inward  pyramid-like  ;  the  square  gateways, 
with  mysterious  Egyptian  emblems,  all  conspire  to 
carry  you  back  to  the  dim,  mystery -periods  of  the 
race  when  man  was  in  the  infancy  of  his  moral  cul 
ture.  The  great  stone  walls  frown  huge  and  remorse 
less  upon  the  spectator — the  long  stone  galleries  give 
back  no  echo,  and  within  is  a  spot  adown  which  the 
stars  only  look,  a  patch  of  blue  sky  inviting  the  soul 
thitherward,  for  the  stone  jaws  of  the  prison  will 
yield  up  never  more  the  body  of  its  inmates.  But 
to-day,  this  Friday,  the  sunlight  came  not  down  a 
little  round  of  glory,  a  sheaf  from  the  full  harvesting 
of  sunshine,  but  instead  the  clouds  wept  downward, 
drop  by  drop,  sounding  upon  the  unyielding  stone, 
pouring  along  the  spouts  and  creating  a  deep  inward 
sound,  dreadful  to  the  lonely  prisoner,  like  far-off 
muffled  drums  and  bells  dumbed  in  space,  and  he 
turned  himself  in  his  cell  and  put  his  hands  to  his 
ears  to  deaden  the  sound. 

These  aspects  of  the  building  render  it  a  fit  shape 
for  a  prison.  It  is  as  if  the  stone  would  say,  I  look 
small,  and  yet  am  vast — I  look  simple  as  the  granite 
ledge  dappled  with  moss  in  the  shadows  of  old  woods, 


92  THENEWSBOY. 

and  yet  my  touch  is  death.  Like  me,  the  first  evil 
deed  seems  a  small  thing,  but  it  is  mighty  in  shutting 
out  the  light  of  heavenly  truth  from  the  mind. 

But,  as  I  said,  the  boys  neared  the  Tombs  through 
the  dismal  rain,  coming  on  a  Friday,  and  saw  the 
crowds  of  people  upon  the  roofs  and  looking  from  the 
windows.  The  streets,  also,  were  full  of  people,  upon 
whom  the  rain  beat,  and  yet  they  did  not  stir.  There 
they  stood,  hour  after  hour,  looking  at  this  heavy 
stone  building  invested  with  so  many  elements  of  the 
terrible.  It  was  well  known  to  the  people  that  the 
ground  upon  which  it  stood  was  so  marshy  that  the 
builders  found  it  nearly  impossible  to  render  the 
foundation  arches  firm.  The  frog,  the  lizard,  and  the 
serpent,  which  had  infested  the  old  Collet,  had  given 
place  to  the  symbol  of  traffic^the  rat,  which  swarmed 
in  its  gloomy  corridors,  fattened  in  its  damp  arches, 
and,  following  the  lead  pipes,  often  penetrated  to  the 
cell  of  the  miserable  culprit,  hunting  him  from  side  to 
side  in  his  narrow,  dark  room,  till  the  rat  anticipated 
the  dues  of  justice. 

Then,  too,  noisome  vapors  crept  insidiously  through 
its  gloomy  passages,  and  the  wretches  consigned  to 
its  walls  perished,  sometimes  many  in  a  night,  from 


THE    OLD    B  E  E  w  E  R  Y  .  93 

these  unwholsome  exhalations.  Had  such  a  catas 
trophe  transpired  at  the  Tombs?  "Were  the  people 
up,  indignant  that  even  felons  should  be  maltreated  in 
this  way  ?  What  is  there  to  be  seen  by  all  that  mass 
of  up-turned  faces  ?  There  is  a  small  angle  of  heavy 
timbers  rising  from  out  the  hollow  square  within — no 
thing  more.  A  priest  with  black  robes,  officers  with 
insignia  of  grade,  enter  the  walls  in  silence.  All  is 
so  still,  so  naked,  so  barren  of  show  and  excitement^ 
that  it  is  horrible.  Some  few  professional  men,  a  doc 
tor,  and  old  ,  who  trades  in  Water  street,  and 

has  witnessed  every  execution  in  the  city  for  the  last 
twenty  or  thirty  years,  presents  his  burly  shape,  and 
bullet  head,  and  is  instantly  admitted — his  penchant 
for  hanging  scenes  is  known  and  indulged.  Flashy 
Jack  and  Bob,  sidling  close  to  each  other,  enter  just 
as  the  great  bell  of  the  cupola  sends  out  a  long  omi 
nous  toll,  that  causes  a  collapse  in  every  heart  in  that 
great  multitude.  And  thus  a  being  full  of  health  and 
strength,  a  youth  but  on  the  vestibule  of  life,  went 
out,  was  forced  unwillingly  out,  upon  the  great  un 
known  ocean  of  the  unseen  world.  It  was  horrible, 
most  horrible.  If  our  legislators  insist  upon  the 
literal  interpretation  of  the  Mosaic  code,  let  us  have 


94  THE    NEWSBOY. 

maiming  if  you  will,  sparing  us  the  shocking  details, 
but  remember  the  gallows  is  a  Christian  dispensation. 
The  laws  should  humanize  ;  if  severe,  should  still 
lean  to  the  side  of  mercy ;  wherever  these  are  in  favor 
of  capital  punishment  they  but  serve  to  harden  and 
brutalize  the  mind.  "When  we  find  men  refuse  to  act 
as  jurors  upon  offences  where  the  punishment  is 
death  ;  when  we  find  men  refuse  to  take  the  office  of 
High  Sheriff,  or  if  they  take  it,  compelled  to  do  the 
duties  of  the  office,  and  forbidden  by  law  to  bribe  an 
other  to  the  act  of  murder,  while  the  duty  is  their 
own  ;  when  we  find  ministers  of  the  Gospel  in  a  body 
declaring  that  they  will  not  officiate  at  the  gallows  / 
when  the  whole  subject  is  stripped  naked,  deprived 
of  all  its  accessaries  of  official  pomp  and  pious  parade, 
then  will  these  legal  crimes  disappear,  and  not  till 
then. 


XIII. 

®!r*  «rs  far  figljt.      — ' 

SILENT,  and  pale  as  death,  came  forth,  officer,  and 

priest,  and  lawyer,  and  doctor.  Old 's  face  had 

acquired  another  shade  of  brutality ;  he  had  another 
"  case"  to  record  in  his  tablets.  As  the  people  silently 
dispersed,  they  knew  that  within  the  Tombs  lay  a 
stiff,  ghastly  object,  revolting  and  terrible  to  the 
thought. 

Flashy  Jack  had  never  been  so  moved.  "When  he 
reached  the  street,  he  did  n't  see  how  poor  Bob  stag 
gered,  pale  as  death,  his  limbs  too  weak  to  carry  him, 
for  he  rushed  away,  down  through  the  splashing  rain, 
as  if  trying  to  banish  some  dreadful  image  from  his 
brain. 

Bob  soon  found  himself  surrounded  by  his  com 
panions,  whose  inquiries  he  answered  as  best  he 


96  THE    NEWSBOY. 

could.  When  he  had  told  how  the  poor  wretch  had 
his  arms  pinioned,  how  he  appeared  when  the  cap 
was  drawn  over  his  face,  how  everybody  gasped  as 
the  platform  rolled  aside,  the  deathly  stillness — all,  all 
that  had  been  burned  into  his  brain  by  that  terrible 
scene,  he  went  on  to  say, 

"  I  'm  free  to  declare,  that  I  don't  believe  in 
these  things.  It 's  agin  the  nater  of  a  man  to  see  a 
human  critter  strung  up  like  a  dog.  It 's  two  mur 
ders  instead  of  one." 

"Whether  it  was  accident  or  design  on  the  part  of 
the  managers,  I  do  not  know,  but  the  evening  subse 
quent  to  the  execution  witnessed  by  Bob  in  the  hol 
low  square  of  the  prison,  the  play  at  the  Bowery 
theatre  was  Jack  Shepherd.  Thither  Bob  went,  more 
by  habit  than  design,  for  the  rain  continued  to  fall,  the 
streets  were  deserted,  and  the  creaking  of  the  signs 
sounded  like  the  dreadful  creak  of  the  platform  as  it 
slid  aside.  As  the  rain  came  down  through  the  dim 
atmosphere,  and  the  lamps  seemed  to  commingle,  and 
then  divide  in  the  distance,  and  now  and  then  a  dark 
mass  moved  along,  it  did  n't  matter  that  it  was  a  pass 
er-by  beneath  an  umbrella,  for  it  had  an  unearthly 
and  mysterious  look  to  the  poor  Newsboy,  drenched 


THE    CEY    FOR   LIGHT.  97 

as  lie  was  to  the  skin,  and  his  brain   seething  with 
confused  and  terrible  images. 

"  If  I  could  only  know  what  it  all  means,"  he 
ejaculated.  "Now,  there  goes  a  'kiverer,'  slow,  slow 
— it  looks  awful — but  the  lamps  show  't  is  handsome 
Molly  underneath,  not  drunk  yet,  but  she  will  be 
afore  morning ;  but  I  get  no  light  on  these  things,  so  I 
should  know  why  some  on  us  gets  nabbed,  and  some 
don't ;  some  is  hung,  and  some  looks  up  so  sleek,  and 
honorable  like.  It 's  the  nater  of  creators  to  do  as 
well  as  they  can,  they  does  n't  tumble  into  the  gutter 
when  they  can  keep  out ;  they  does  n't  nab,  and 
gouge,  and  sneak,  when  they  's  got  something  better 
to  do.  I  wishes  I  had  some  light  on  it  all." 

Poor  Bob  was  n't  the  first  that  had  longed  for  a 
clearer  light.  From  the  time  of  the  burly  Ajax,  who 
cut  and  slashed  in  the  darkness,  not  knowing  that  he 
contended  with  the  Gods,  down  to  the  poorest  seeker 
after  knowledge,  whether  material  or  moral,  "  light, 
light "  has  been  the  great  cry  of  the  human.  It  cries 
for  light  more  than  for  mercy.  Oh  for  light  to  pene 
trate  into  the  dim,  terrible  recesses  of  the  moral 
world,  that  we  might  enter  in  and  sweep  and  garnish, 
and  winnow  as  the  husbandman  winnows  the  grain, 


98  THE    NEWSBOY. 

and  thus  plant  the. good  seed  which,  shall  spring  up  to 
bear  fruit  an  hundred  fold. 

While  Bob  thought  of  these  things  he  bought 
some  pea-nuts  of  the  old  woman  who  sits  at  the  head 
of  Chambers  street,  on  the  Centre  street  side,  for  the 
Newsboys  were  her  only  patrons.  She  had  sat  there 
for  years,  nodding  and  shaking  her  head  from  side  to 
side,  and  working  her  loose  lips,  one  large  tooth  pro 
jecting  beyond,  as  if  she  had  a  sort  of  warning  for 
everybody.  Her  hands,  with  their  long  hard  nails, 
were  gray  ;  her  skin  in  all  its  folds  and  wrinkles  was 
gray ;  her  eyes  were  gray,  with  a  slight  shade  of  pink 
surrounding  them,  and  the  thin  hair  coming  out  from 
the  gray  old  handkerchief  that  bound  it,  was  gray 
also.  When  the  boys  said,  "  Give  us  some  pea-nuts, 
Granny,"  screaming  so  loud  that  everybody  looked 
round  and  got  the  old  woman's  warning,  she  tried  to 
smile,  but  it  was  n't  a  smile  by  any  means,  but  only  a 
faster  working  of  the  head  and  lips,  and  she  did  not 
stir  her  hands  to  help  them,  for  she  could  n't  do  it ;  so 
the  boys  helped  themselves,  and  put  their  money  into 
her  lap,  and  went  on.  Oh  the  old  woman  saw  the 
gold  in  her  lap  you  may  be  sure,  and  she  nodded 
from  side  to  side,  and  shook  and  bowed  faster  than 


THE    CRY    FOR    LIGHT.  99 

ever,  and  when  another  and  another  did  the  same 
thing,  she  laughed  aloud,  and  rocked  herself,  and  by- 
and-by,  so  great  was  her  love  for  the  gold,  it  over 
came  her  paralysis,  and  she  clutched  it  in  her  skinny 
hands,  and  thrust  it  into  her  bosom;  and  then  sat 
mumbling  to  herself,  and  nodding  and  shaking  her 
head  as  if  she  warned  people  to  beware  of  some 
thing. 

Bob  had  gone  by  Burton's  theatre  at  the  left  of 
the  Park,  where  he  knew  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
fun  in  Burton,  but  it  was  not  of  a  kind  to  interest  the 
Newsboys,  who  covet  something  more  intense  and 
graphic  in  character.  The  Newsboy  looks  to  the  the 
atre  to  acquire  ideas,  and  hence  he  goes  to  the  one 
that  best  meets  his  requirements,  without  the  ability  to 
judge  as  to  its  moral  import.  Loving  excitement,  he 
goes  where  he  can  best  find  it.  So  Bob  doubled  the 
corner  of  Chambers  street  on  his  way  up  through 
Chatham  street  to  the  Bowery.  There  was  a  long 
heavy  strike  of  the  City  Hall  bell,  and  presently  a  fire 
company  came  thundering  over  the  pavements,  the 
foreman  shouting  through  his  trumpet,  and  the  men 
rushing  and  pulling,  and  dashing  the  mud  around 
them  in  torrents. 


100  THE   NEWSBOY.. 

It  is  a  favorite  game  with,  the  Newsboys  "  to  run 
with,  the  machine,"  and  the  cry  of  fire,  however  ap 
palling  to  the  merchant,  whose  warehouses  groan 
with  merchandise,  or  to  the  wealthy  householder, 
with  his  gold  and  silver,  fine  linen  and  damask, 
with  his  tender  wife  and  fair  children,  is  altogether 
another  affair  to  the  helpless  night  wanderer,  whose 
only  covering  is  the  broad  sky,  who,  like  the  snail, 
carries  his  whole  wealth  upon  his  back.  To  such  it 
is  a  chance  for  plunder,  for  excitement,  for  anything 
that  shall  break  the  stagnant  dulness  of  life. 

Now,  however,  Bob  was  "  not  in  the  vein,"  and 
though  the  slippery  areas,  and  blind  alleys,  and  nar 
row  streets  poured  out  their  thousands  of  haggard  in 
mates,  ready  for  any  work,  and  helping  the  tumult, 
he  stepped  into  the  shelter  of  a  closed  doorway,  and 
waited  for  the  crowd,  with  their  deafening  shouts,  to 
pass  on. 

"  I  declares  I  feel  as  if  I  M  been  doin'  of  some 
thing  bad,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I's  as  weak  as  a  rag." 

At  this  moment,  and  as  the  fire  companies  and  the 
crowd  in  their  wake  went  on  up  the  street,  and  the 
sound  of  the  rain  pattering  upon  the  tin  roofs  and 
rushiog  from  the  spouts  became  again  audible,  Bob 


THE    CRY    FOR    LIGHT.  101 

came  forth  from  his  retreat.  Now  a  band  playing  a 
march  fell  soothingly  upon  his  ear.  He  knew  they 
played  "Love  Not,"  for  the  Newsboys  learn  to  dis 
tinguish  the  tunes. 

"Love  Not,"  he  repeated,  "Love  Not!  I  wonder 
what  it  means.  Something  dreadful.  Sam  and  Mary 
loved,  and  there  they  are  both  on  'em  out  in  Green 
wood.  Molly  said  she  loved  once,  a  villain,  she  said 
he  was,  and  there  she  goes,  night  arter  night,  ravin7 
and  howlin',  and  a  cryin'."  Poor  Sam  I  and  Bob 
mingled  a  tear  with  the  rain  that  dashed  in  his  face. 

By  this  time  the  music  had  approached,  and  Bob 
saw  that  it  was  a  torch-light  procession.  The  steady 
tramp  of  feet,  the  fading  away  of  the  music,  and  the 
flare  of  torches  through  the  darkness,  had  something 
impish  to  the  eye,  something  solemn  and  mysterious, 
which  did  not  fail  of  their  effect  upon  his  already  ex 
cited  mind. 

By  this  time  he  had  entered  the  theatre.  He 
looked  about  for  Flashy  Jack,  called  out  to  him,  put 
his  thumb  and  finger  into  his  cheek,  and  gave  a  well- 
known  signal.  There  was  no  response,  and  as  the 
curtain  arose,  his  attention  became  riveted  upon  the 
play  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 


XIY. 


JACK  SHEPPAKD  is  a  mere  youth,  handsome,  gay, 
and  witty  —  the  admiration  of  his  compeers.  At  the 
first  appearance  of  the  character,  Bob  started  up,  ex 
claiming, 

"  By  gorry,  'tis  Flashy  Jack." 

The  Newsboys  heard  him.  A  new  light  broke 
upon  their  minds,  and  they  gave  way  to  tumultuous 
shouts  of  applause.  They  rose  en  masse  in  the  pit. 
They  screamed  and  shouted,  and  threw  up  their  caps 
till  the  tumult  became  deafening.  The  police  tried  in 
vain  to  establish  order.  The  boys  were  so  astonished, 
so  delighted  at  the  appearance  of  one  of  their  number 
in  such  a  fine  costume,  and  uttering  language  un 
familiar  to  themselves,  "all  so  nat'ral,"  and  looking  as 
they  said,  "  handsome  as  the  devil,"  that  order  was 


A  DISCOVERY.  103 

quite  out  of  the  question.  But  when  Flashy  Jack 
came  forward  to  the  foot-lights,  and  waving  his  hand, 
asked  them  in  a  sort  of  patronizing  way,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  become  a  great  man,  to  be  quiet,  they  gave 
one  final  shout  and  then  settled  down  into  silence. 

The  play  went  on.  Jack  Sheppard  is  so  young, 
so  gay,  so  fascinating.  Then  he  drinks,  and  swears, 
and  gambles — becomes  at  length  lewd  and  finally 
guilty,  and  perishes  miserably  at  Tyburn,  dies  the 
death  of  the  felon,' — you  follow  him  step  by  step,  with 
a  pitying  interest.  And  the  bad  tendency  of  the  play 
consists  in  this  very  pity  for  a  bold,  reckless  youth, 
whose  dashing  traits  lend  a  dangerous  fascination  to 
crime.  You  forget  his  guiltiness  and  overlook  his 
vices  in  your  extorted  sympathy. 

Flashy  Jack  had  often  appeared  as  a  "  supe"  at  the 
theatre;  and  his  ready  tact,  fine  figure,  handsome 
gladiator  face  and  head,  and  deep  sonorous  voice,  had 
long  attracted  the  attention  of  the  managers,  and 
his  services  began  to  be  in  requisition.  To  Bob 
all  this  was  perplexing  and  trying  to  the  last  de 
gree.  He  felt  as  if  left  alone  again,  as  he  had  been 
so  often  before  in  life;  Sam  and  Mary  gone,  and 
now  Flashy  Jack  suddenly  become  a  great  man. 


104:  THE    NEWSBOY. 

The  early  history  of  Jack  which  he  had  known 
only  in  parts,  his  character  so  showy,  so  like  that  of 
Jack  Sheppard,  that  to  play  it  was  no  acting,  only 
putting  himself  into  words,  that  altogether  a  heavy, 
mysterious  foreboding  came  upon  him. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  saw  Jack  living  as  Sheppard  did, 
just  so  handsome,  women  a  lovin'  of  him,  and  men  a 
trustin'  of  him,  and  he  doin'  just  as  Jack  Sheppard, 
and  dyin'  in  the  same  way." 

As  he  said  this  he  had  spread  down  a  heap  of  pa 
pers  for  his  head  and  disposed  himself  to  sleep.  Bob 
did  n't  pray  before  he  slept,  why  should  he  ?  how 
should  he  ?  but  that  steady  listening  of  his  to  the 
little  monitor  that  whispered,  "do  right,  do  right," 
that  desire  of  his  to  learn  the  way  to  do  it,  was  not 
unobserved  in  the  great  economy  of  the  universe. 
Had  not  the  sainted  Sister  Agnace  dropped  a  tear 
upon  his  brow  when  she  prayed  for  him  so  long  ago  ? 
and  had  he  not  tried,  in  his  imperfect  way,  to  learn 
the  aim  and  end  of  his  creation  ?  That  night  as  poor 
Bob,  alone  once  more,  laid  down  his  head  to  sleep, 
where  the  rain  drops  pattered  about  him,  you  might 
have  seen,  had  you  been  there,  and  "  spiritually  dis 
cerned"  a  soft,  smiling  angel  leaning  over  the  poor 


A   DISCOVERY.  105 

Newsboy,  shielding  him  from  the  rain,  and  touching 
his  poor  thin  temples  with  her  wings,  and  you  would 
have  been  surprised  at  the  beautiful  vision  of  the 
Newsboy — you  would  have  wondered  to  see  how  he 
went  away  off  into  a  "  faire  countrie,"  where  the 
birds  sang  lovingly  from  overhanging  branches,  and 
blossoms  unfolded  themselves  in  perennial  bloom,  and 
where  there  were  no  shadows,  nor  tears,  nor  sin,  but 
a  serene,  ever-growing  delight. 

I  think  the  angel  with  whom  the  poor,  friendless 
ragged  Bob  went  was  his  mother,  and  the  place 
heaven ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  when  he  awoke  the 
mystery  of  life  looked  less  dark  and  oppressive  to 
him. 


XV. 

®|*   iisutu 

NEXT  came  the  Sabbath,  and  as  Bob  went  out  to 
the  hydrant,  preparing  himself  for  the  day,  I  had  a 
vision,  and  I  believe  it  was  the  sight  of  Bob  that  pro 
duced  it ;  the  sight  of  his  weird,  pale  face  and  forlorn 
aspect ;  he  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  with  not  a  hand 
in  the  wide  world  stretched  out  to  help  him. 

One  clear  Sabbath  morning — I  know  it  was  the 
Sabbath,  for  the  beautiful  Sabbath  idea  is  carried  out 
into  the  whole  universe,  and  it  is  one  of  joy,  of  peace, 
and  of  beauty,  wherever  it  goes.  It  is  the  serene  di 
vine  repose,  coming  direct  from  the  good  Father  into 
the  soul  of  all  created  things,  and  therefore  it  must  be 
well  with  the  recipient.  It  was  the  Sabbath,  as  I 
said,  and  the  birds  were  singing  jubilant ;  the  flowers 
had  unfolded  themselves  little  by  little,  till  a  bud  was 


THE    VISION.  107 

a  rose,  you  could  n't  tell  how,  for  it  is  always  Sab 
bath  to  them ;  the  blue  and  golden  sky  leaned  upon 
the  boles  of  the  great  trees — a  dome  it  was  with  col 
umns  and  arches,  and  fair  tracery  of  intervening 
branches,  through  which  the  winds  sounded  a  solemn 
anthem. 

Then  I  saw  a  city  in  which  the  bells  were  ringing 
lightly,  sending  clear  voices  into  lanes,  and  alleys, 
and  by-places,  calling  men  to  prayer.  Many  a  time 
had  the  Sabbath  opened  as  serenely  as  this.  Many 
a  time  the  bird,  and  blossom,  and  bell  had  said, 
"  Come,  let  us  sing  unto  the  Lord,  let  us  utterly  re 
joice  in  the  God  of  our  salvation,"  but  the  call  had 
fallen  upon  deaf  ears.  Now  it  was  otherwise.  A  new 
thought  had  been  born  to  the  world.  Something  had 
gone  from  heart  to  heart  at  that  time,  which  had 
caused  every  man  to  look  into  his  neighbor's  face,  and 
he  whom  he  had  supposed  a  foe,  an  outcast,  the  off- 
scouring  of  the  earth,  was  found  to  be  a  brother;  and 
when  men  saw  this  they  as  naturally  looked  up,  and 
with  one  voice  they  chanted,  "  Our  Father." 

So  the  poor,  the  lowly,  the  outcast,  and  oppressed, 
arose  at  once,  and  began  to  throng  to  the  churches  at 
the  call  of  the  Christian  Sabbath  bell.  The  Five 


108  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Points  gave  forth,  its  lazar  multitude.  The  docks, 
basements,  garrets,  slimy  alleys,  where  in  sub-cellars 
the  half-stagnant  waters  disputed  possession  with  the 
rats,  sent  forth  their  cadaverous  and  bloated  occu 
pants.  Narrow  streets  and  courts,  areas,  hogsheads, 
crates,  old  bakery  ovens,  heaps  of  ashes,  all  are  yield 
ing  up  their  miserable,  cheerless  inhabitants  in  obedi 
ence  to  this  life-giving  call,  "  Come,  let  us  sing  unto 
the  Lord." 

The  church  bells  were  ringing,  and  onward  came 
these  children  of  the  night,  half  naked,  ragged,  and 
squalid ;  disease  and  hunger,  vice  and  crime,  and 
poverty  and  wretchedness,  looking  out,  haggard,  de 
fiant,  and  wolfish,  from  their  midst.  They  didn't 
know  it,  poor  things ;  they  did  n't  know  how  horri 
ble  they  looked,  for  they  had  lived  and  slept  amid 
reptiles  and  reptile  vices,  and  did  n't  know  how  like 
they  had  become.  So  now  they  hurried  on.  Some 
found  their  way  into  Trinity,  some  into  Grace,  some 
into  the  Church  of  the  Messiah,  some  into  Pilgrim 
Church;  and  there,  amid  sighs  of  misery,  and  the 
sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  and  the  squalidncss  of  vice, 
they  cast  themselves  upon  the  pavements,  and  a  great 
cry,  uBe  pitiful,  oh  God!"  went  up  from  every  heart. 


THE   VISION.  109 

Oh !  there  was  great  rustling  of  velvet,  and  stiffen 
ing  of  brocade,  and  flutter  of  fans,  and  shiver  of  lace, 
but  the  people,  God's  children,  had  been  suddenly 
touched  to  Sabbath-day  issues,  and  their  Te  laudamus 
went  up  as  a  sweet  odor  to  the  Divine  sense,  and 
therefore  these  ignorant  children  did  not  know  the 
meaning  of  all  this  rustle  of  respectable  piety. 

They  had  been  treated  as  dogs  in  the  highways  ; 
they  had  been  cast  forth  and  reviled — they  had  been 
used  to  scorn  and  contempt,  and  hatred  and  cruelty ; 
they  had  faced  the  pitiless  storm  of  the  elements,  and 
the  more  pitiless  storm  of  human  obloquy,  and  there 
fore  they  did  not  heed  this  new  manifestation; 
indeed,  they  thought  the  angels  of  the  sanctuary  had 
all  congregated  over  their  poor  bruised  and  broken 
hearts,  and  joined  in  their  song,  and  pointed  to  a 
lovely  image  in  the  distance,  toiling  amid  a  reviling 
crowd,  bearing  upon  his  tender  shoulders  a  cross,  and 
whose  lips  cried,  "  Father,  forgive  them,"  at  which 
sight  sobs  burst  from  their  lips,  and  they  repeated  the 
words,  "  forgive,  forgive !" 

The  vision  passed,  and  only  one  poor,  half-naked 
little  shape  was  seen  to  enter  Grace  Church  amid  all 
the  well-dressed  men  and  women  who  carry  out  their 


110  THE   NEWSBOY. 

finery  there  for  Sabbath-day  exhibition.  How  the 
people  did  stare !  some  giggled,  as  though  it  was  a 
funny  thing  to  see  poverty  enter  that  church.  Some 
frowned,  as  if  it  was  an  impertinent  thing  for  poverty 
to  enter  that  church.  Some  looked  savage,  as  if  it 
was  a  crime  for  poverty  to  enter  that  church.  But 
most  of  all,  the  sexton  was  amazed,  and  just  as  poor 
Bob,  not  in  the  least  knowing  the  state  of  things,  but 
bent  to  learn  something  of  the  terrible  mystery  of  life, 
had  instinctively  fallen  upon  his  knees,  his  ragged 
garments  actually  touching  the  fine  carpets  of  the 
aisle,  the  indignant  sexton,  fearing  blame  might  fall 
upon  himself  because  human  limbs  poorly  covered 
had  presumed  to  enter  those  sacred  precincts,  laid  his 
hand  rather  strongly  upon  his  shoulder.  Bob  would 
have  been  ejected — of  course  he  would  have  been 
ejected.  Now  Bob  had  n't  the  least  idea  that  he  was 
committing  an  impropriety.  He  knew  money  was 
not  to  be  paid  at  the  door ;  he  knew  that  much  about 
a  church;  and  further,  he  knew  that  the  "little 
bunks  "  so  daintily  furnished  with  cushions  and  car 
pets,  and  golden-clasped  books  of  prayer,  and  gilded 
Bibles,  were  private  property — he  had  not  presumed 
to  invade  these ;  but  the  thoroughfares,  the  vestibules, 


THE    VISION.  Ill 

lie  had  supposed  in  his  simplicity  were  open  to 
all  who  might  desire  to  worship.  Moreover,  so 
far  as  he  personally  was  concerned  he  did  not 
once  dream  himself  anything  the  least  out  of  the 
way,  anything  in  the  least  an  object  of  scorn  or  dis 
gust.  His  labor  supplied  all  his  necessities,  and  it 
would  require  two  or  three  generations  of  Bob's  off 
spring  to  refine  them  down  to  callous-heartedness. 
Perhaps  they  could  n't  be  refined  down  to  this,  for 
one  great,  true,  pure,  loving  human  heart  goes  on  to 
leaven  a  great  many  of  a  race. 

Look  at  Jesus  of  Nazareth !  it  is  almost  two 
thousand  years  since  he  stood  amid  the  selfish,  rich, 
respectable  Jews,  and  said  "a  new  commandment  I 
give  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another,"  and  now  all 
that  wealthy  Jewish  piety  which  rose  up  in  scorn, 
and  contempt,  and  persecution  against  this  one  great, 
loving  soul,  has  passed  away  into  what  is  worse  than, 
oblivion,  remembered  odium  ;  but  the  words,  and  the 
soul  that  breathed  through  the  words,  of  the  dear 
Jesus  come,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  centuries,  fresh 
as  the  song  of  the  bird,  or  the  dew  of  the  morning, 
into  your  heart  and  mine,  and  we  are  serenely  joyful 
to  recall  them. 


XVI. 


BUT  I  have  left  poor  Bob  all  this  time  in  the 
aisle  of  the  church,  where  so  many  gorgeously 
dressed  people  pass  by  him,  each  gathering  up  their 
robes  for  fear  of  defilement,  and  there  he  is  with  the 
sexton's  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  would  have 
been  ejected,  as  I  said,  but  just  then  a  gentleman  and 
lady  had  to  enter  the  pew  before  which  Bob  had 
knelt,  and  the  sexton  gave  him  an  extra  jerk  because 
he  was  in  the  way.  Bob  saw  it,  and  supposing  that 
to  be  the  only  difficulty,  moved  aside,  and  then 
bent  his  head  reverently  once  more.  Oh,  the  sexton 
was  red  in  the  face,  you  may  be  sure,  and  he 
helped  Bob  to  his  feet  quick,  and  would  have  helped 
him  out  of  the  door  also,  but  a  little  hand  took 
hold  of  Bob's  arm  and  drew  him  within  the  pew, 


LIGHT.  113 

and  a  low  voice  said,  "  Come  in  here  and  kneel 
down,"  and  Bob  did  as  he  was  desired,  seeing  nothing 
strange,  nothing  at  all  peculiar  in  the  act.  That  child 
was  a  candlestick  giving  forth  light  in  the  Lord's 
temple. 

So  little  self-consciousness  had  our  Newsboy,  that 
he  never  once  thought  of  his  poor  robes  as  contrasted 
with  all  the  finery  about  him ;  he  did  n't  look  at  the 
people  in  the  pew ;  if  he  had  done  so  it  would  have 
cost  him  some  wonderment  to  know  why  there  were 
tears  in  their  eyes,  and  why  the  little  hand  that  had 
been  laid  upon  his  arm  had  been  ever  since  wiping 
the  tears  from  the  eyes  of  the  owner.  Then  the  same 
little  hand  held  out  a  prayer  book,  just  as  the  minis 
ter  began, 

"  The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple,"  and  all  the  peo 
ple  rose  to  their  feet,  (but  Bob  continued  to  kneel,  the 
child  knew  no  better),  and  when  the  little  hand 
reached  him  the  prayer  book,  he  did  n't  look  up,  but 
only  whispered, 

"I  does  n't  read,  I  don't." 

Then  the  hand  went  to  the  eyes  again.  "When 
in  the  course  of  the  service,  the  minister  read  the 
story  of  those  who  were  called  to  appear  in  judg- 


114  THE   NEWSBOY. 

ment,  and  those  who  had  visited  the  prisoner  and 
given  bread  to  the  hungry,  and  clothed  the  naked, 
were  rewarded  even  for  the  least  good  done  to  their 
kind,  done  in  the  true  spirit  of  love,  poor  ignorant 
Bob  wept  plentifully,  and  wiped  his  tears  on  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket,  knowing  nothing  better.  Bob 
understood  it  all,  all  about  "  doing  good  as  ye  have 
opportunity ;"  and  when  it  was  repeated  in  the  ser 
vice,  "  Love  one  another,  do  good  as  ye  have  oppor 
tunity,"  Bob  understood  it  all,  a  great  light  had  shone 
into  his  mind — he  grew  so  large  with  the  thoughts 
that  came  to  him,  so  filled  and  enlarged  and  elevated, 
that  he  turned  to  the  little  one  who  knelt  beside  him, 
and  said, 

"  I  does  n't  think  I  can  bear  any  more,"  and  he 
went  out  very  softly. 

Now  Bob's  body  was  n't  half  large  enough  for  his 
great  thoughts.  "I  sees  it  all  now,"  he  said,  "it's  all 
plain.  It 's  love  does  it  all ;  if  I  loves  I  finds  a  chance 
to  do  good." 

Bob  felt  as  if  he  must  go  away  out  of  the  range 
of  brick  and  mortar,  and  closely-paved  streets,  to 
carry  his  new  revelation. 

"It's  an  airing  that  it  wants,"  he  said.     "  Gorry ! 


LIGHT.  115 

I  does  n't  see  how  people  sets  there  and  hears  it  all 
through  I" 

Bob  did  n't  know  that  out  of  all  that  multitude 
kneeling  there,  with  prayers  upon  their  lips,  and  di 
vine  truths  in  their  ears,  his  was  the  only  heart  that 
had  received  the  good  word  into  a  good  soil;  he 
did  n't  know  that  the  angel  that  came  down,  longing 
to  fill  the  house  of  God  with  his  great  glory,  ready 
to  touch  a  thousand  hearts  with  a  coal  from  God's 
altar,  found  only  one  prepared  for  the  heavenly  gift, 
and  that  one  was  a  poor,  unlettered  boy,  nearly  eject 
ed  from  the  threshold. 


XVII. 

ffriligfct, 

BOB  saw  Flashy  Jack  with  little  Yic  trotting 
along  beside  him,  but  somehow  he  felt  as  if  he 
could  n't  talk  with  him  just  now.  Jack  had  helped 
him  the  best  way  he  could — he  had  established  it  as 
an  axiom  that  the  true  course  "  was  al'ays  to  pitch 
into  the  strongest  party,  and  that  would  help  the 
weak,"  but  as  this  rule  was  indefinite  in  applica 
tion,  and  admitted  of  many  modifications,  it  had  n't 
helped  him  much.  Then  the  story  of  Jack  Sheppard, 
just  one  of  the  Flashy  Jack  stamp,  ending  life  so 
mirerably,  was,  as  Bob  more  than  once  said,  "  A 
stunner." 

Bob  felt  now  he  had  something  tangible  by  which 


TWILIGHT.  117 

he  could  shape  his  course.  "  I  sees  it — it's  love  does 
it  all."  By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  South  Ferry. 
People  were  coming  and  going,  and  the  Newsboys 
were  collected  round  the  gates  selling  papers,  poking 
their  little  bony,  black  hands  through  the  bars  and 
crying  out,  "  Sunday  Dispatch,  Courier,  Herald,  Mer 
cury,  Atlas,  Times,"  till  you  couldn't  help  laughing  at 
the  clatter  they  made  ;  and  they,  seeing  you  laugh, 
laughed  themselves,  and  of  course  you  bought  a  pa 
per,  for  a  free,  natural  laugh  is  worth  more  than  all 
the  money  in  the  pockets  of  either  you  or  me ;  though 
as  to  that,  money  does  n't  like  my  pockets. 

"  Here 's  Bob,  here 's  our  Bob,"  shouted  the  little 
Newsboys,  for  't  is  the  little  ones  not  old  enough  or 
strong  enough  to  go  greater  distances  that  hold  the 
monopoly  of  the  South  Ferry. 

Bob  tossed  the  boys  a  few  coppers,  paid  his 
penny,  and  crossed  over.  Alone  he  took  his  way  to 
Greenwood.  Sam  and  Mary  had  illustrated  love  in 
one  beautiful  aspect,  and  now  they  grew  suddenly 
very  dear  and  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  Bob,  and  he 
felt  as  if  he  must  carry  his  new  revelation  to  the 
grave  o£  the  lovers.  He  showed  his  ticket  at  the  en 
trance  with,  it  may  be,  a  little  pride.  I  think  he 


118  THE   NEWSBOY. 

might  be  justified  in  the  feeling.      And  when   he 
reached  the  corner  where  a  pretty  stone,  inscribed 

THE 

<K  i  du  s  i  0  bi 

AND 

¥  a  n  tj , 

stood  up  so  solemn,  Bob  felt  another  glow  of  pride, 
for  it  was  partly  his  own  doings.  He  had  helped  to 
save  the  memory  of  Sam  and  Mary  from  oblivion.. 
When  we  remember  that  Fannie  Osgood  sleeps  with 
out  a  stone,  and  Maria  del  Occidente  is  hardly  remem 
bered,  and  Mellen  and  Poe,  and  a  host  of  the  children 
of  genius,  have  no  commemorative  tablet,  although 
thousands  sunned  their  vanity  in  the  light  of  their 
fame  while  they  lived  ;  when  we  remember  this,  we 
can  pardon  the  honest  pride  of  poor  untutored  Bob,  as 
he  stood  admiring  the  simple  monument  marking  the 
ashes  of  his  friends.  Here  he  seated  himself  upon 
the  grass,  and  as  he  marked  how  it  had  grown  around 
the  graves,  and  how  the  rosebush  the  boys  had  paid 
for  the  planting,  was  full  of  blossoms,  and  the  ivy 
vine  already  festooning  the  stone,  he  felt  a  deeper 
solitude  as  these  changes  indicated  the  lapse,  of  time 
since  their  separation. 


TWILIGHT.  119 

"  You 's  good  to  me,  Sam,  when  I 's  nothing  but  a 
plague  and  a  bother,  I  was;  and  Mary's  more  nor 
kind.  I 's  thinkin'  she  can't  be  more  of  an  angel  now 
nor  she  was  then.  I 's  kept  her  thimble,  Sam,  I  has  ; 
it 's  here,  close  to  Bob's  heart ;"  and  he  unrolled  fold 
after  fold  of  paper  till  he  came  to  a  little  silver 
thimble,  which  he  looked  at  with  the  tears  running 
down  his  cheeks. 

"  It 's  teeny,  just  like  her,"  and  he  folded  it  away  - 
next  to  his  great  heart. 

When  you  and  I  are  gone,  I  wonder  if  there  '11  be 
anybody  to  shed  such  tears  for  us  1  Ah  me  ! 

The  sun  sent  his  golden  beams  adown  the  west, 
and  the  full  white  moon  gleamed  in  the  east,  making 
almost  a  double  day.  The  silver  rays  of  the  moon 
kissed  the  golden  beams  of  the  sun,  struggling 
through  the  dense  foliage  that  they  might  thus  com 
mingle.  The  rays  of  each  shot  across  grave-stone  and 
monument,  lighting  up  now  an  Egyptian  mausoleum, 
and  now  a  slender  obelisk,  and  then  lingered  softly 
where  a  little,  weather-beaten  chair  marked  the  grave 
of  a  child.  Bob  saw  a  small  shape,  with  long  golden 
hair,  and  naked  shoulders,  seated  in  the  little  chair, 


120  THE   NEWSBOY. 

but  when  the  sun  went  down  it  was  gone.     It  had 
passed  to 

"Suns  that  have  elsewhere  their  setting." 

The  birds  did  not  stop  their  singing  so  early  that 
night  as  is  their  wont,  for  the  light  beguiled  them  into 
a  prolonged  concert.  The  small  striped  squirrel  came 
out  behind  a  grave,  peered  around  with  its  lustrous 
eyes,  mounted  the  marble,  whisked  itself  about  and 
chattered,  and  then  its  mate  came  out  also,  and  they 
began  a  race  over  the  stones.  A  great  fish-hawk  that 
had  perched  upon  one  of  the  tall  trees,  poised  itself 
seaward  with  a  loud  cry.  An  eagle  sailed  solemnly 
athwart  the  clear  blue,  and  then  was  lost  in  the  dis 
tance.  The  birds  began  to  nestle  in  their  snug  domi- 
cils,  and  a  soft  haze  arose  from  Silver  Lake,  where 
the  fountain  fell  in  a  dreamy  spray.  The  tree-toad 
trilled  in  the  branches,  and  the  frog  and  the  turtle 
began  their  twilight  movements.  At  length  an  owl 
screamed  loudly  from  the  arches  of  one  of  the  tombs, 
and  a  rat  crept  stealthily  along  the  gravel  walk. 

"  Just  like  the  live  city,"  said  Bob.  "  These  night 
critters  come  out  jest  so  all  about  New  York. 
There 's  the  rat  and  the  cat  scrambling  here  and  there, 


TWILIGHT.  121 

and  men  and  women  that 's  jist  like  'em,  go-in'  up  and 
down.  And  these  tombs  a'  n't  no  worse  nor  the 
Tombs  in  the  city,  where  things  is  goin'  on,  no  bet 
ter  to  think  on  than  the  worms  that 's  crawlin'  under 
here.  I  sees  it  all  clear  now.  The  drinkin',  and 
Hem',  and  stealing  and  robbin',  brings  'em  to  the 
dreadful  ends — but  lovin'  leads  out  of  these  things. 
You  knew  it,  Sam,  you  did,  and  now  I  Ve  larned  it 
all." 

At  this  Bob  knelt  down  for  a  long  time,  but  he 
did  n't  speak.  Poor  Bob  had  n't  a  word  to  express 
the  big  needs  of  his  poor  young  heart.  The  shadows 
of  the  graves  chilled  him  to  the  bone,  and  the  cold, 
unearthly  light  of  the  moon  struck  a  thrill  of  dread 
through  his  heart.  It  was  very  late,  past  midnight, 
when  Bob  reached  the  Bowling  Green.  He  drank 
from  the  pump  that  faces  Broadway,  and  then 
stretched  himself  upon  the  bench,  with  only  a  paper 
thrown  over  his  face,  and  slept  soundly  to  the  stirring 

of  the  trees  and  the  murmur  of  the  fountain. 

6 


XVIII. 

f  itst  iflll  at 


BOB  had  been  so  used  all  his  life  to  the  waking  up 
of  the  city,  that  he  slept  on  although  the  ferry  boats 
in  the  vicinity  were  ringing  their  bells  at  intervals, 
and  the  artisans  from  Brooklyn  were  already  astir. 
The  ice-nien  rattled  along  with  a  cool  stream  of  water 
dripping  from  their  carts,  where  the  blocks  of  ice 
piled  in  heaps,  shone  like  diamonds  in  the  early  light. 
The  milkmen,  in  their  jaunty  red  wagons,  darted  by, 
giving  out  at  intervals  their  peculiar  yell,  like  the 
whoop  of  a  wild  Indian.  The  steam  was  surging  and 
roaring  from  the  valves  of  newly-arrived  steamers. 
The  bloated  debauchee  was  creeping  home  to  bury 
himself  from  the  light,  just  as  the  bird  sprang  from 
his  nest  in  the  Bowling  Green  to  hail  it  with  a  song. 
At  this  moment  Bob  felt  a  sharp  pull  of  his  hair  and 


THE    LAST    TOLL    AT    THE    FERKY.    123 

a  cry  so  into  Ms  ear,  that  lie  started  to  his  feet. 
Looking  down  he  saw  a  heap  of  little  bones  which  he 
had  upset  in  rising,  and  two  eyes,  large,  dark,  and 
mournful,  were  looking  through  tears  into  his. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  by  gorry,"  he  ex 
claimed.  He  looked  up  Broadway,  there  was  nothing 
unusual  to  be  seen  there.  He  looked  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left,  not  like  Hardicanute,  when 


"  Stately  stepped  lie  east  the  \va', 
And  stately  stepped  lie  west ;" 


for  Bob,  though  a  hero,  our  hero,  reader,  was  by  no 
means  of  the  warlike  or  stalwart  order.  He  saw  no 
one  who  might  be  supposed  to  own  the  little  waif  at 
his  feet.  Looking  through  the  iron  railings,  just  to 
the  left  of  the  platters  piled  up  by  our  city  fathers  for 
a  fountain,  between  one  of  the  geese  (that  "  seems  to 
be  working,"  Bob  says,  "  like  death  to  give  a  spit  into 
a  spittoon  ")  and  the  platters,  he  saw  two  eyes  peering 
from  a  hollow,  cadaverous  face,  watching  the  fate  of 
the  poor  little  abandoned  imp. 

Quick  as  thought  Bob  caught  up  the  child  (its 
weight  was  nothing),  and  started  round  to  the  left  of 
the  Bowling  Green,  intending  to  give  her  back  the 


124:  THE    NEWSBOY. 

child.  The  woman  divined  his  purpose,  for  she  darted 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  South  Ferry.  She  seemed 
to  have  little  or  no  covering  except  a  calico  gown 
much  worn,  and  a  small  gray  shawl,  while  her  masses 
of  tangled  hair,  set  in  motion  by  the  wind,  floated 
back  like  a  black  veil  or  banner.  When  she  reached 
the  ferry  house  she  did  not  stop  for  toll — ah  !  she  had 
other  toll  to  pay,  at  another  gate  closing  forever  the 
wayfaring  of  life.  Bob  did  not  slack  his  pace,  he  also 
darted  without  pay  past  the  toll  keeper.  The  poor 
young  creature  threw  up  her  hands  as  she  neared  the 
black  gulf  below,  she  cast  back  one  look,  wild  and 
anearthly,  at  Bob  and  her  child,  and  the  waters 
closed  over  her  just  as  the  ferry  boat  was  entering  the 
slip. 

Of  course  the  pilot  backed  his  boat  and  the  good- 
natured  ferry-man,  whose  clear  black  eyes  and  rosy 
face  have  been  for  so  many  years  like  a  morning 
benediction  to  the  passer  from  Brooklyn,  left  his  little 
stand  to  do  all  he  could  to  save  the  forlorn  woman. 
Bob  sat  upon  the  verge  of  the  timbers,  still  grasping 
the  child  while  the  people  raked  about  with  long 
poles  and  hooks  for  the  body.  It  was  never  found ; 
she  who  had  thus  been  wrecked  upon  the  quicksands 


THE    LAST    TOLL    AT    THE    FERRY.      125 

of  life  liad  floated  out  into  the  unknown  ocean.  Her 
last  toll  was  paid. 

Sights  of  misery  were  too  frequent  to  the  senses 
of  the  Newsboy  to  excite  any  great  degree  of  feeling, 
and  Bob  arose,  still  bearing  the  child.  He  stood  it 
upon  the  ground,  and  even  he  was  shocked  at  its  pale 
ness  and  littleness ;  more  than  this,  its  back  was 
hunched  or  broken.  The  child  might  be  five  years 
old,  it  had  clasped  its  bits  of  hands  more  like  the 
claws  of  a  bird,  and  with  its  white,  pale  forehead 
sharply  contracted  over  large,  unearthly  eyes,  looked 
steadily  into  Bob's  face. 

"Don't  look  in  that  fix,"  he  muttered;  "don't, 
you  clip  me  through  and  through,  monkey.  "What 's 
your  name,  Sis?" 

"  Minnie,"  it  replied  in  a  weak,  thin  voice.  Its 
lips  quivered,  the  blue  veins  of  the  forehead  swelled, 
a  slight  redness  grew  upon  the  face,  it  sobbed,  quiver 
ing  all  over,  as  if  trying  to  keep  back  its  tears,  and 
then  it  gave  out  a  low,  shrill  sound,  growing  more 
and  more  intense,  till  it  was  like  the  sharp  cry  of  a 
wounded  panther. 

Bob's  great  heart  was  touched  at  the  misery  of 
the  poor  thing.  He  took  it  up  and  began  to  go  up 


126  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Whitehall  street.  Here  lie  bought  a  drink  of  milk 
for  himself  and  the  child,  and  remembering  his  duty 
for  the  day,  he  prevailed  upon  an  old  woman  who 
keeps  a  stand  at  the  corner  of  the  Battery,  to  keep 
Minnie  till  nightfall,  and  so  the  good  creature  stowed 
her  away  in  a  basket,  just  as  she  would  dispose  of  a 
kitten. 

All  day  the  image  of  Minnie  kept  itself  in  the 
eyes  of  Bob.  Sometimes  he  thought  to  carry  her  to 
the  Alms  House ;  but  when  he  thus  thought,  he 
seemed  to  see  the  imploring  eyes  of  the  poor  mother 
just  as  she  looked  when  she  sunk  down  into  the 
black  waters,  and  the  look,  said  "keep  her,  for  the 
love  of  God." 

Then  he  thought  of  the  good,  kind,  motherly 
woman  who  had  stowed  her  into  her  work  basket 
while  she  mended  linen  for  a  large  brood  at  home. 
"  No,  she  can't  in  the  nater  of  things  do  such  a  thing ; 
it's  another  mouth  to  be  filled,  and  I  '11  fill  it." 

So  thought  Bob,  and  then  he  began  to  think 
where  he  could  put  her.  "The  Sisters  of  Charity 
would  take  her  in,  but  she's  broken  back,  poor 
thing  ;  and  nobody  'd  love  her  unless  her  mother, 
and  she 's  gone,  and  so  I  '11  do  what  I  can." 


XIX. 


As  he  came  down  Broadway,  he  looked  at  the 
beggars  keenly  as  he  passed  them,  to  see  if  any  one 
had  a  face  as  if  she  might  help  him.  The  young 
girls,  with  their  long,  flat,  dirty  ankles  coming  far 
below  their  flapping  calico  gowns,  sent  back  his 
glances  with  a  laugh  and  a  stare  ;  he  saw  they 
wouldn't  do.  As  he  neared  Anthony  street  he  be- 
thoiight  him  of  Maggie  at  the  Five  Points,  and  he 
turned  in  that  direction  to  see  if  he  could  discern 
anything  motherly  and  protective  in  her  character. 
Maggie  was  a  stout,  smart  girl  of  ten  or  more,  a  per 
fect  imp  of  mischief,  a  she  "  renegate,"  a  creature 
ready  to  scream  with  laughter,  and  pour  out  a  volley 
of  oaths  in  the  same  breath.  Quick  of  wit,  fluent  of 
tongue,  and  agile  as  a  kitten  was  Maggie.  She 


128  THE    NEWSBOY. 

swung  her  limbs  about  in  a  startling  manner,  like  a 
young  gypsy,  and  lolled  upon  the  window  sill,  in  a 
state  of  glorious  laziness,  the  type  of  vagrant,  idle 
girl-dom.  Her  ready  scoff,  and  ready  laugh,  and  alert 
legs,  were  the  admiration  of  the  whole  wicked  neigh 
borhood,  and  yet  there  was  a  depth  and  passionate- 
ness  in  her  eye,  an  undercurrent  of  still  life  fore 
shadowing  a  sad  stormy  future,  as  we  shall  see  in  the 
sequel. 

In  the  time  of  our  story,  Maggie  was,  as  we  have 
said,  an  imp  of  mischief,  nothing  else ;  yet  her  loud, 
cheery  laugh  had  a  magnetic  sound  not  unpleasant  to 
the  ear.  Bob,  as  he  came  out  opposite  the  Old  Brew 
ery,  and  saw  her  lolling  cross-legged  against  a  pump, 
did  not  for  a  moment  think  that  the  girl  was  over  tall 
for  her  years,  and  was  really  remarkable  in  her  looks. 
She  leaned  back,  one  hand  holding  up  her  dark  curly 
hair  from  her  great  eyes,  in  which  the  sensual  nature 
contended  with  the  mournful  spirit  of  the  purer  sense ; 
lustrous  eyes,  melancholy  and  glowing  also  under 
their  heavy  lids.  Her  full  lips  were  half  parted  with 
a  smile,  showing  the  white  teeth  like  pearls.  She  was 
watching  a  group  of  dirty  children,  who  quarrelled 
fiercely  at  one  moment,  and  then  burst  into  shouts  of 


MAGGIE.  129 

laughter  the  next.  Young  as  Maggie  was,  she  did  n't 
join  them,  but  looked  on  pleased  with  the  sport,  just 
as  well  pleased  when  they  rushed  upon  each  other 
with  cries  of  rage,  tearing  the  hair  from  each  other's 
heads,  biting,  pinching,  and  striking,  as  when  they 
bent  their  mischief  upon  a  poor  stray  young  rat  which 
they  had  caught  in  the  gutter. 

Bob,  in  the  angle  of  the  building,  watched  the 
scene  with  unwonted  disgust.  All  at  once  Maggie 
looked  up  and  encountered  his  eyes  with  a  start. 
Something  like  a  blush,  the  common  blush  of  gratified 
vanity,  gave  her  brown  cheek  a  handsome  glow,  and 
then  she  flung  out  her  legs,  whirled  round  the  pump, 
laughing  and  snapping  her  fingers  at  the  Newsboy. 

"  She  won't  do— that 's  flat,"  said  Bob  to  himself, 
reddening  he  could  n't  tell  for  what  reason.  "  'Cause 
why? — she'd  make  Minnie  like  them  brats.  Maybe 
she  'd  like  to  see  poor  little  broken-back  yellin'  just 
like  'em.  I  '11  see  her  begorried  fust."  And  Bob 
turned  toward  Broadway  again,  without  even  glanc 
ing  toward  Maggie,  whose  curly  hair  was  blowing 
round  the  side  of  the  pump,  and  its  owner  expect 
ing  the  Newsboy  to  join  her,  which  he  had  no  dis 
position  to  do,  and  therefore  continued  on  his  way. 

6* 


XX. 


Bob  continued  down  Broadway,  thinking  what  in 
the  world  he  should  do  with  poor  little  Minnie,  and  it 
may  be  thinking  it  pleasant  to  have  something  to 
look  after.  Indeed,  the  more  Bob  thought  of  the 
child,  and  the  more  that  last  look  of  the  wretched 
mother  settled  itself  around  his  great  heart,  the  more 
did  Minnie  seem  to  creep  in,  to  nestle  as  it  were  in  the 
sunshine  of  that  warm  heart,  just  as  a  good  or  beauti 
ful  thought  plumes  itself  like  a  bird  in  yours  or 
mine. 

He  was  near  the  princely  bazaar  of  Stewart  by  this 
time,  when  an  itinerant  organist  loosened  the  strap 
from  his  back,  and*  drawing  the  barrel  of  the  organ 
round  in  front  of  him  began  to  turn  the  crank  with 


THE   DOVE   AND   THE   SNAKE.       181 

great  pertinacity.  He  was  a  handsome  Italian  boy, 
and  that  was  the  reason  all  the  ladies  looked  from 
their  carriage  windows  to  hear  the  music,  and  tossed 
him  money  also,  and  one  fair  child,  whose  foot  was  on 
the  step  of  the  carriage  into  which  her  mother  had 
gone,  clapped  her  hands  merrily,  and  actually  gave  a 
few  turns  in  the  waltz  which  the  man  was  playing. 

Bob  thought  her  scarcely  human,  but  his  attention 
was  called  away  from  observing  her,  by  a  voice  close 
to  his  ear,  that  hissed  out  "  Sacre"  from  between  his 
teeth.  He  looked  up  and  saw  a  tall,  dark  man,  care 
fully  and  fashionably  dressed,  eyeing  the  child  with 
an  utterly  expressionless  face,  except  that  in  the  depth 
of  the  eye  there  was  a  burning,  snake-like  look  of 
delight.  It  made  one  think  of  Coleridge's  poem  of 
the  dove  clasped  in  the  folds  of  the  snake,  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  child. 

<:  Imogen,"  called  a  soft  voice  from  the  carriage ; 
the  child  turned,  and  her  eyes  encountered  the  face 
of  Bob,  at  which  she  laid  her  little  hand,  with  its 
pretty  laces  falling  about  it,  (Bob  knew  the  hand  and 
arm  at  once,  although  he  had  not  known  that  he 
should  do  so  till  he  met  it  again,)  she  laid  the  same 
little  hand  of  Grace  Church  upon  his  arm,  and  said 


132  THE    NEWSBOY. 

in  a  small  lady -like  way,  "  You  must  come  right  into 
our  pew  next  time,"  and  then  she  obeyed  the  sum 
mons  to  the  carriage,  for  by  this  time  a  large  number 
of  persons  had  filled  the  sidewalk;  as  they  always  will 
in  Broadway  if  the  least  thing  happens  out  of  the 
ordinary  channel.  No  matter  what  it  is,  a  woman 
with  a  long  silken  train  sweeping  up  the  dust  and 
filth  of  the  street  about  her  ankles,  a  bloomer  cos 
tume,  a  country  girl  with  red  cheeks  and  outre  dress, 
or  a  Spanish  beauty  with  high  comb  and  veil,  the 
prettiest  head-gear  in  the  world ;  a  Greek,  a  Chinese, 
a  handsome  dog,  or  a  monkey, — one  and  all  will  at 
tract  the  gaze  of  the  multitude. 

The  carriage  moved  away ;  it  was  one  of  the  few 
plain,  elegant  carriages,  unmarked  by  livery,  and  thus 
gave  an  unmistakable  sign  that  its  owner  was  entitled 
to  position  on  other  grounds  than  the  vulgar  ground 
of  wealth.  Bob  gave  a  penny  to  the  street  musician, 
and  hurried  away  just  as  he  began  to  play  "  Love  not." 

"  No,  by  Gorry,  I  '11  not  mind  the  tune,  I  knows 
better,"  Bob  muttered.  He  was  wiser  than  the  gifted 
woman  who  wrote  the  words,  and  did  so  in  bitterness 
and  anguish  of  spirit,  knowing  that  love  is  to  the 
soul  what  liotfit  is  to  the  eye. 


THE    DOVE   AND    SNAKE.  133 

Bob  felt  something  like  this,  for  he  was  a  philoso 
pher  in  his  way.  He  had  crossed  the  Park  about  half 
way,  keeping  the  street  pavement,  the  iron  fence  upon 
one  side,  and  a  long  string  of  hackney  coaches  upon 
the  other,  when  he  observed,  inside  of  the  Park,  near 
to  the  fence,  the  tall,  dark  man  he  had  before  encoun 
tered.  This  time  he  was  talking  familiarly  with 
Flashy  Jack ;  and  Bob  saw,  that  as  the  latter  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  Bowery,  he  touched  his  hat 
quite  in  the  style  of  the  gentleman.  "  Flashy  Jack  's 
gallus,  and  no  mistake,"  thought  Bob,  continuing  his 
way  without  accosting  his  old  companion.  Bob  gave 
a  look  at  Barnum's  Museum,  covered  with  beast,  and 
bird,  and  reptile,  and  then  was  obliged  to  pause  in 
front  because  of  the  blockade  of  vehicles. 


XXL 

gl  lam  in  §r0afotoitjj. 

THEEE  is  no  getting  up  nor  down  the  street. 
There  is  a  dead  calm.  The  stage  drivers  compose 
themselves  upon  their  boxes,  assured  of  ten  minutes 
of  leisure.  They  crack  jokes  and  whips  at  each 
other.  Draymen  plant  themselves  bolt  upright,  and 
relieve  themselves  by  swearing.  Porters  change  their 
burdens  from  side  to  side,  but  needing  all  their 
strength  to  carry  them,  do  not  swear.  Handcarts  are 
jammed  up  between  drays  and  stages,  and  their  hold 
ers  now  take  the  strap  which  they  carry  across  their 
foreheads  to  help  the  draft,  from  its  place,  and  hold 
up  their  heads  to  look  about  them.  ~Boys  are  in 
ecstasies,  running  pell-mell  in  all  directions,  mounting 
upon  stages,  lamp-posts,  and  old  awnings,  everywhere 
that  a  boy  can  fix  himself,  (and  where  is  the  place 


A   JAM    IN    BKOADWAY.  135 

upon  which  a  boy  cannot  hang),  and  they  shout  and 
roar,  and  crack  pea-nuts,  and  toss  the  shells  upon  the 
heads  below,  and  think  a  Broadway  jam  the  best  fun 
in  in  the  world.  One  perfect  little  yahoo  mounted 
upon  a  railing,  spits  upon  the  hats  below  with  utter 
contempt  for  all  decencies. 

Passengers  thread  in  and  out  amid  this  Babel 
with  wondrous  dexterity,  now  seizing  the  tongue  of  a 
stage,  now  ducking  under  the  teeth  of  a  horse,  mount 
ing  a  cart,  doubling  a  wheel,  zigzaging  amid  vehicles 
of  every  kind,  composedly  nonchalant  of  all  the  up 
roar.  At  length  far  down,  a  mile  off,  somewhere  at 
the  Bowling  Green,  the  jam  breaks,  and  the  whole 
mass  gives  way.  Presto!  all  is  in  motion,  helter 
skelter — boys  scamper  like  mad,  drivers  spur  up, 
drays  rattle  and  thump,  newsboys  begin  to  scream, 
cartmen  buckle  the  belt  to  the  brow  and  drop  their 
heads  like  beasts  of  burden — whip,  swear,  whip,  crack, 
scream,  laugh,  hurra — and  all  is  in  motion  again. 

I  have  seen  the  mountain  stream  emerging  from 
its  narrow  pass,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  laughing 
itself  to  pearly  foam,  struggling  and  writhing  to 
escape  the  pressure  of  overhanging  cliffs,  and  to  me  it 
is  a  young,  joyous  Undine,  spurning  at  the  yoke.  I 


136  THE    NEWSBOY. 

have  seen  the  winter  stream  pouring  itself  onward  in 
a  mass  of  contorted  and  broken  ice — onward,  onward 
rushed  the  whirl  of  spray  and  ice,  eager  to  reach  the 
narrow  pass,  and  find  rest  in  the  expanse  below. 
Volume  upon  volume  piles  the  crystal  weight,  lifting 
itself  up  into  fantastic  shapes,  aping  tower  and  dome, 
and  casting  itself  upon  the  shore  hundreds  of  feet. 
Miles  above,  the  river  pours  on  unconscious  of  the 
impediment.  People  start  from  their  beds  at  the 
tumult  of  rising  waters ;  the  banks  are  submerged ; 
whole  villages  stand  like  Venice  amid  the  seas ;  tall 
trees  look  like  lonely  sentinels ;  the  church  spire 
points  sadly  from  its  watery  bed ;  all  is  terror  and  con 
fusion.  Hark !  there  is  a  far-off  rumbling,  a  tremen 
dous  vibration,  as  of  an  earthquake ;  the  ice  begins  to 
grind  and  topple ;  louder  grows  the  roar,  and  anon  the 
whole  scene  is  in  motion. 

The  village  seems  to  loom  in  the  distance ;  trees 
sway  here  and  there,  wildly  rocking  to  and  fro,  and 
disappear ;  the  church  is  moving  onward — the  bridge 
flings  itself  high  in  the  air  and  is  gone — far  as  the  eye 
can  reach  is  a  whirl  of  ice,  and  a  roar  of  blackened 
waters.  The  jam  of  ice  has  given  way,  and  gradually 
the  river  renews  her  ancient  bounds. 


A   JAM   IN   BROADWAY.  137 

I  have  seen  a  human  multitude  enthused  by  some 
great  thought,  and  swayed  back  and  forth  at  the  will 
of  the  speaker;  but  nature  and  man  are  always  majes 
tic,  when  put  into  action  by  a  great  force.  There  is 
something  thrillingly  grand  in  the  u  tumult  of  the 
people,"  as  in  the  "  roaring  of  the  sea ;"  but  for  noise 
without  dignity ;  tumult  without  suggestiveness  ;  for 
dead,  revolting  supremacy,  where  there  is  a  sense  as 
of  some  potent,  destructive  element;  ready  at  any  time 
to  explode;  where  men  appear  half  imp  and  half 
brute,  commend  me  to  a  jam  in  Broadway. 

As  the  mass  gave  way,  Bob,  still  at  a  loss  in  his 
mind  what  to  do  in  regard  to  Minnie,  and  thinking 
sometimes  of  the  little  hand  that  had  been  laid  more 
than  once  upon  his  arm,  crossed  over  to  the  other 
side  of  Broadway,  and  stood  looking  through  the  bars 
at  the  graves  in  Trinity  church-yard,  just  as  you  and 
I  have  done,  Header,  many  a  time,  and  trying  to  dis 
tinguish  the  grave  of  poor  Charlotte  Temple,  who  lies 
there  under  a  white  stone  with  a  broken  rose  carved 
upon  it.  Ah/  the  grave-yards,  and  the  deep  seas, 
and  the  flowing  rivers,  hold  many,  many  such,  poor, 
deluded,  broken-hearted  girls,  who  "  loved  not  wisely, 
but  too  well." 


138  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Bob  did  n't  know  how  faint  and  weary  he  had 
grown,  for  his  great  heart  was  thinking  all  the  time 
with  sad  perplexity.  For  the  first  time  his  eyes  were 
looking  into  a  dim,  uncertain  future,  and  he  was  not 
alone  there.  A  hand  had  been  laid  upon  his  arm,  and 
somehow  that  touch  had  seemed  to  say,  "  Protect  me." 
And  all  the  time  that  Bob  stood  there  looking  at  the 
graves,  he  felt  the  touch  and  heard  the  voice.  It 
wasn't  very  distinct,  but  it  was  there  nevertheless. 


XXII. 


WHILE  Bob  stood  as  we  have  seen,  lie  became 
conscious  of  a  group  beside  him,  who  also  had  turned 
their  faces  from  the  stirring  life  in  Broadway  to  the 
"  place  of  graves,"  where  its  perturbations  had  long 
since  ceased.  The  genuine  Newsboy  never  shows  an 
ill-bred  curiosity  ;  but  somehow  Bob  felt  as  if  the  little 
hand  pressed  hard  upon  his  arm,  and  a  voice  said 
very  distinctly,  "  Protect  me,"  while  these  stood  by. 
This  time  "  Sacre"  was  muttered  in  a  low,  fierce  tone  ; 
but  the  utterer  was  gone  before  Bob  could  be  quite 
sure  to  whom  the  ejaculation  was  addressed.  Three 
men  were  grouped  by  the  fence  ;  and  though  neither 
of  them  even  turned  his  head  when  the  stranger 
parted,  Bob  was  certain  the  dark  gentleman  had  been 
talking  with  them. 


140  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Reader,  do  you  believe  in  a  devil  ?  I  should  have 
said  Satan ;  but  he  is  a  unity.  I  would  have  used 
Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning ;  but  there  is  a  glowing 
beauty  about  the  term  that  makes  us  forget  him  as 
u  shorn  of  his  beams,"  and  fallen.  Mephistophiles  is 
an  intellect,  an  im-human  wit.  Imp  is  spriteish, 
diminutive.  "  That  old  Serpent"  is  not  what  I  want. 
I  am  talking  of  a  common,  vulgar,  atrocious  creature 
of  evil,  which,  if  you  don't  believe  in,  I  pity  you. 
There  will  be  rough  sledding  over  your  moral  road ; 
hard  spots  to  get  over. 

I  have  been  in  the  same  way.  I  have  refined 
down  the  obnoxious  powers  into  a  great  evil  abstract, 
the  antagonist  of  good,  the  shadow  to  the  light,  the 
bitter  to  the  sweet,  the  pain  to  pleasure,  making  it 
after  all  but  a  brightener  of  the  good.  It  was  all  bad. 
Go  back  with  me  to  the  time  when  in  our  childhood 
he  brandished  his  pitchfork  tail,  and  clattered  his 
hoofs  in  a  corner  when  we  "  played  on  Sundays ;" 
when  his  big  horns  loomed  redly  through  the  dark 
ness,  and  strange  whisperings  at  the  elbow  made  us 
turn  suddenly,  dubious  whether  we  did  not  smell 
brimstone.  Ah !  those  were  days  of  salutary  terror, 
making  us  decorous  in  'havior,  careful  for  the  truth, 


THE    HAND    UPON    THE    ARM.       141 

and  mindful  of  clean  aprons.  "We  must  believe  in 
him.  It  is  of  no  use  to  dodge  the  faith,  and  our  clergy 
do  well  to  preach  him  up  in  the  pulpit,  and  preach  at 
the  children  of  the  devil,  for  there  are  such,  and  I  have 
seen  them. 

These  devils  sometimes  take  human  shapes,  and 
"  go  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,"  as 
described  in  the  book  of  Job.  Oh !  then  they  look 
to  the  ways  of  good  men,  and  find  out  the  tender 
spot  where  sin  may  enter  the  garrison  ;  they  find  out 
the  love  of  gold  or  the  love  of  life  stronger  than  the 
love  of  the  good,  and  they  cry,  "  skin  for  skin,  all 
that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  his  life."  Look  to 
yourself;  ten  to  one  he  is  at  your  elbow  in  some  un 
suspected  shape. 

Others  again  show  the  open,  manifest  devil,  like  the 
three  leaning  over  Trinity  Church  iron  fence.  One  of 
them  was  small,  wiry,  with  little  red  eyes  and  a  quick 
jerking  voice ;  another  was  a  buriy  fellow,  one  thumb 
and  two  fingers  gone  from  one  hand ;  his  eyes  were 
peculiar  in  having  a  white  rim  entirely  round  the 
ball,  or  pupil,  like  what  is  called  a  wall-eyed  horse. 
The  third  man,  or  devil,  was  a  brown,  low-browed 
fellow,  with  wiry  hair,  and  brawny  arms,  naked  to 


142  THE    NEWSBOY. 

the  elbow  and  covered  with  tattooing.  Their  language 
was  a  jargon  of  French,  German,  Spanish  and  Eng 
lish,  with  the  peculiar  dialect  native  to  the  Infernals. 
As  the  splendid  equipages  of  the  Upper  Ten  swept 
by  with  elegant  trappings  and  livery,  they  would 
thrust  out  their  arms  and  utter  "rich,"  "rich,"  with 
oaths  that  would  have  been  terrible  from  human  lips, 
but  coming  from  these,  afforded  great  insight;  Their 
mirth  became  hideous.  A  poor  lame  beggar  was  near 
being  thrown  down  by  a  horse.  "  Go  it,"  they 
shouted,  as  if  suffering  and  danger  afforded  only  fun. 
They  were  alert  in  observation ;  the  rich  were  met 
with  imprecations,  the  poor  with  jests.  Life  was  to 
them  a  debasing  farce.  There  was  not  a  vestige  of 
what  properly  belongs  to  a  human  being  left.  Low 
browed,  animal,  and  cruel,  it  required  a  strong  imag 
ination  to  believe  that  these  were  once  innocent  chil 
dren.  And  when  one  tried  to  imagine  angels  as  their 
guardians,  it  would  not  do  at  all,  and  one  came  to  the 
solemn  conclusion  that  they  had  never  been  babies — 
never  been  bathed  in  messed  water — never  been 
fondled  with  the '  tears  and  prayers  of  a  mother,  but 
were  escaped  Incarnates,  who  wandered  to  and  fro  in 
the  earth,  and  had  made  New  York  their  rendezvous. 


THE    HAND    UPON    THE    ARM.       143 

Bob  did  n't  like  the  proximity  of  these  wretches, 
and  he  felt  admonished,  likewise,  that  it  was  time  to 
look  after  Minnie,  who  had  been  all  day  in  the  charge 
of  the  woman  at  the  corner  of  the  Battery.  As  he 
neared  the  spot,  the  child  was  seated  on  the  good 
woman's  lap,  nibbling  a  biscuit,  but  evidently  looking 
out  for  somebody  else.  The  woman  had  washed  her 
nicely,  and  brushed  her  soft  wavy  hair,  so  that  her 
appearance  was  far  from  uninteresting.  She  knew 
Bob  upon  the  instant,  and  reached  up  her  arms ;  and 
when  he  lifted  her  from  the  ground,  she  laid  her  head 
over  his  shoulder  in  a  confiding  way,  that  was  quite 
touching. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  with  her,  Bub?"  asked 
the  woman,  who  never  stopped  her  needle  for  a  mo 
ment  unless  to  supply  a  customer.  It  was  well  she 
didn't;  for  she  had  a  round  family  of  children  at 
home,  and  a  poorish  man  for  a  husband,  who  did 
little  else  than  take  care  of  them,  being  better  adapted 
to  in-door  work  than  the  more  airy  avocation  of  his 
good  thrifty  wife.  To  the  woman's  question,  Bob  re 
plied  after  a  pause,  for  the  arms  of  little  Minnie,  over 
\is  shoulder,  were  pulling  kindly  threads  about  his 
heart,  and  warming  up  nice  little  chambers  there,  that 


144  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Bob  didn't  know  till  this  blessed  moment  he  pos 
sessed. 

"I's  thinkin',  Granny,  I'll  keep  her.  You  see 
she  's  broken-back,  and  that 's  a  checker  to  most  peo 
ple's  feelin's." 

"  Well,  Bubbj,  she  '11  be  wantin'  a  gown  and  an 
apron  made  sometimes ;  you  jist  come  here,  where  I 
shall  be  sittin'  the  Lord  knows  how  long,  but  most 
likely  till  I  'm  carried  to  my  grave — longer  'n  she, 
poor  thing,  will  trouble  anybody;  you  come  here, 
Bub,  and  I  '11  be  doin'  little  things  for  her." 

The  woman  said  this  in  a  choky  sort  of  a  voice,  a 
little  red  about  the  eyes  also ;  and  while  she  put  some 
pea-nuts,  and  cake,  and  apples,  and  candy,  into  a  large 
paper  bag,  which  Bob  was  to  take  away  with  him,  she 
felt  some  twinges  of  remorse  at  not  taking  the  child 
herself,  for  she  had  learned  the  story  of  the  moth 
er's  death,  and  therefore  she  said  by  way  of  apology, 

"  You  see,  Bubby,  my  house  is  run  over  with  my 
own  brats,  God  help  'em ;  my  old  man  ain't  much, 
and  I  do  what  I  can,  but  you  come  here  and  I  '11  help 
you,  Bubby,  now  mind,"  and  she  gave  both  a  moth 
erly  pat  upon  the  shoulders,  as  they  turned  to  go. 

Bob,  though  genial  in  his  nature,  had  not  really 


THE    HAND    UPON    THE    ARM.       145 

the  elements  of  the  "  mix  up  "  "  bird  of  feather  "  char 
acter.  There  was  a  certain  self-respect  which  never 
deserted  him.  If  his  career  seems  a  vagrant  one 
hitherto,  it  was  because  circumstances  had  rendered  it 
unavoidable.  His  attachments  were  ready  and  deep, 
and  even  the  spot  in  which  he  had  slept  two  or  three 
nights  in  succession  became  dear  to  him.  The  News 
boys  had  always  loved  him,  had  relied  upon  him  for  a 
certain  native  wisdom,  which  had  induced  them  to 
consult  him  upon  periods  of  "  stress  and  strain."  His 
habits,  without  being  solitary,  were  less  easy  and  com 
panionable  than  the  majority  of  them,  and  now  he  in 
stinctively  took  a  route  to  avoid  them.  A  stage  car 
ried  him  away  out  to  Greenwich,  on  the  Eighth 
avenue.  Here  had  been  built,  now  and  then,  a 
princely  dwelling,  leaving  vacant  lots,  in  which  some 
times  a  flock  of  sheep  were  pastured  for  a  few  days ; 
sometimes  these  lots  were  fenced  in  and  cultivated ; 
sometimes,  and  most  frequently,  they  were  left  unin- 
closed,  and  became  the  receptacle  for  various  decayed 
and  useless  articles,  thrust  into  them  for  convenience 
sake.  Lumber  yards  were  all  about  in  the  vicinity, 
with  immense  piles  of  boards,  stacked  up  so  high  that 

you  would  have  wondered  how  they  ever  could  get 

7 


146  THE   NEWSBOY. 

them  down  again.  Sometimes  the  wind  swept  sud 
denly  down  the  river,  and  then  these  boards  might  be 
seen  lifted  one  by  one  from  their  lofty  place,  and 
pitched  over  upon  the  ground  with  a  regularity  as  if 
two  invisible  beings  had  seized  them  at  either  end 
and  turned  them  over.  These  boards  were  a  favor 
ite  place  for  children  and  vagrants  ;  for  scarcely  ever 
was  there  a  storm  in  which  they  could  not  find  some 
where  amongst  them,  a  dry,  cosey  corner.  Old 
stages,  rickety  and  worn  railway  cars,  were  pitched 
into  the  lots,  and  there  remained  year  by  year,  till 
little  by  little  they  dropped  away  into  the  baskets  of 
children  gathering  chips.  Ashes  made  little  billows 
all  over  them,  where  the  housemaids  threw  them  in  of 
mornings. 

These  lots  are  famous  places  for  the  rag-pickers, 
who  may  be  seen  at  any  time  in  their  brown  gowns, 
with  a  bag  tied  to  the  back  and  a  long  narrow  basket 
in  hand,  stirring  up  the  ground  with  their  iron  rods  in 
pursuit  of  their  filthy  trade.  Even  they  grow  rich  at 
their  toil,  as  everybody  can  who  will.  They  find  bits 
of  iron,  spoons,  knives,  half- worn  garments  cast  away 
by  slatternly  housekeepers  and  careless  maids,  and  the 
rag-picker  has  a  keen  thrifty  eye  for  these  things. 


XXIII. 


BOB  moved  about  warily,  for  the  little  orphan 
had  been  long  sleeping  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he,  to 
whom  life  was  such  a  mystery,  felt  an  inward  shrink 
ing  from  observation  as  if  he  were  committing  a 
wrong.  He  pictured  to  himself  some  of  the  miser 
able  denizens  always  haunting  the  outskirts  of  a  great 
city,  peering  in  upon  his  retreat,  and  watching  his 
movements  with  curiosity  or  suspicion.  He  knew 
that  the  Ginger-bread  man  sometimes  came  up  as  far 
as  this  to  mumble  his  cake,  drink  at  the  pump,  and 
then  crawl  away  to  sleep.  The  Lime-kiln  man  passed 
out  that  way,  but  the  Lime-kiln  man  troubled  nobody, 
or  if  he  spoke  it  was  to  say  a  good  word  of  caution  to 
some  poor,  tempted  wretch  who  but  for  him.  would 
have  fallen  deeper  into  misery.  Oh  !  there  is  preach- 


148  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ing,  great  preaching,  carried  on  amongst  the  poor, 
given  freely  as  God's  free  air,  given  lovingly  as  God 
is  love. 

Bob  seated  himself  in  the  shadow  of  an  old  stage, 
and  watched  the  comers  in.  There  was  an  old  woman 
with  a  lame  child  upon  her  back.  He  was  a  poor 
idiot,  but  her  blood  was  in  his  veins,  and  he  had  a 
clinging,  helpless  love  for  her,  to  which  she  responded 
despite  of  disease  and  misery.  She  placed  him  upon 
some  old  tinning,  the  rusty  remains  of  a  roofing,  a 
part  of  which  she  had  leaned  against  the  fence  for  a 
shelter.  She  groaned  heavily  from  age  and  exhaust 
ion,  but  sleep  soon  came  to  her  aid. 

Bob  waited  till  he  saw  that  the  locality  was  too 
far  removed  from  the  centres  of  business  and  popula 
tion  to  be  much  frequented,  and  then  he  lifted  Minnie 
into  the  stage  and  laid  himself  down  to  sleep. 

That  night  Bob  thought  he  saw  a  very  sweet  face 
looking  down  upon  him  with  a  smile.  His  dream 
changed,  and  he  saw  the  two  intense,  agonized  eyes 
peering  through  the  rails  of  the  Bowling  Green,  and 
then  they  looked  back  over  a  thin  shoulder,  and  then 
the  sea  covered  them  ;  slowly  they  arose  again  from 
the  water — they  were  soft,  and  heavenly  in  their 


THE    FIRST    Kiss.  149 

look ;  a  white  robe  floated  out,  and  she  laid  one  hand 
upon  the  head  of  little  Minnie,  and  the  other  upon 
that  of  Bob.  The  touch  awakened  him,  but  only 
Minnie  was  there,  her  bits  of  fingers  clasped,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  Bob's  face. 

She  smiled  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  then  she 
leaned  forward  and  kissed  his  cheek.  It  was  the  first 
kiss  poor  Bob  had  ever  received ;  it  was  a  thing  so 
new  and  unexpected,  that  his  great  heart  stopped  its 
beating,  and  the  tears  gushed  to  his  eyes.  Minnie 
saw  it,  and  she  put  her  cheek  close  to  his,  and  hugged 
her  two  little  sticks  of  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Gorry,  gorry,  little  Broken-back,  you  '11  kill 
Bob,  you  will,"  he  at  length  said,  never  once  return 
ing  the  caress  of  the  child. 

Minnie  had  not  as  yet  spoken  to  her  protector, 
but  now  she  lifted  up  her  head,  and  in  a  small  voice 
said, 

"I  '11  be  good— I'll  be  very  good." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  that,  monkey  ?"  re 
turned  Bob. 

"  Oh !  I  can  wash  my  face,  and  I  can  keep  still  all 

I 

day  long." 

"  You  call  that  bein'  good,  Sis?" 


150  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Minnie  opened  her  eyes,  and  was  silent ;  but 
when  Bob  produced  the  bag  to  give  her  some  cakes, 
and  moved  as  if  he  were  going  away,  she  held  fast 
hold  of  his  ragged  coat,  afraid  of  losing  him.  Bob 
remembered  how  he  had  held  in  the  same  way  upon 
Sam,  when  he  was  but  little  larger,  and  he  knew  ex 
actly  how  to  pity  poor  Minnie. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I  doesn't  want  you  a 
hangin'  on  behind  while  I  goes  about  hollerin'  papers. 
Cause  why  ?  the  boys  would  be  a  laughin'  at  me,  and 
you  could  n't  do  no  good.  Gorry,  now,  shut  up — I 
can't  stand  that  water  dripping  out  of  them  hydrants 
of  yourn.  Look  here,  I  '11  come  back,  I  will,  monkey." 

Minnie  curled  herself  up,  and  laid  down  without  a 
word,  and  Bob  went  out.  But  somehow  there  was 
something  tugging  at  his  heart,  and  he  went  back  to 
find  little  Minnie  peeping  through  a  crack  in  the 
stage,  and  large  tears  slowly  and  silently  falling  from 
her  eyes.  The  boy  was  touched ;  he  went  in,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms — he  smoothed  down  her  hair, 
and  actually  kissed  the  poor  little  cheek. 

"  Gorry !  I  did  n't  know  I  could  do  it,"  he  mut 
tered,  holding  the  bit  of  little  bones  close  to  his  great, 
brave  heart. 


THE    FIRST   Kiss.  151 

"Oh!  it's  the  lovin'  that  makes  the  heart  ache," 
he  ejaculated  ;  "  but  I  does  n't  care.  Monkey,  I  '11 
come  back,  I  will.  Don't  be  a  cryin' — don't,  it  takes 
all  the  grit  out  of  Bob." 

Minnie  laughed  now,  and  she  kissed  Bob  again 
and  again,  and  she  took  up  his  large,  dark  hand  and 
kissed  that ;  and  when,  as  he  went  out,  a  flap  of  his 
coat  caught  in  a  splinter  of  the  old  stage,  Minnie 
kissed  that  also.  But  Bob  ran  away  without  daring 
to  look  back. 

All  day,  if  you  could  have  looked  in,  you  would 
have  seen  little  Minnie,  hardly  daring  to  stir,  peering 
through  the  cracks,  longing  for  the  return  of  her  only 
friend.  All  day,  if  you  could  have  looked  into  Bob's 
face,  you  would  have  seen  how  noble  the  thought  of 
Minnie  had  made  it  look.  You  would  have  seen  that 
there  was  something  lying  deep  in  his  heart,  so  near 
akin  to  God's  heart  of  love,  that  the  poor  ragged 
Newsboy  had  that  about  him  that  gave  him  good  fel 
lowship.  All  up  and  down  the  street  as  he  went, 
there  was  a  hallowed  pathway.  People  who  came 
near  to  Bob  saw  a  gleam  of  beauty,  heard  a  chord 
of  music,  and  felt  a  thrill  of  joy,  they  could  n't  tell 
how  nor  why,  but  it  was  because  of  the  good  angels 


152  THE    NEWSBOY. 

that  went  up  and  down  with  him,  the  good  angels 
that  look  after  forsaken  orphans — of  whom  it  is  said, 
"  when  father  and  mother  forsake  me,  the  Lord  will 
take  me  up." 

Bob's  voice  had  acquired  a  new  tone,  and  it  went 
into  the  hearts  of  people,  and  they  bought  his  books 
and  his  papers  at  once,  so  that  he  was  able  to  return 
to  little  Minnie  long  before  dark.  You  may  be  sure 
that  there  was  rejoicing  in  that  poor  little  heart,  when 
the  eyes  saw  Bob  coming  up  from  behind  the  heaps 
of  ashes  and  rubbish,  and  nearing  the  old  stage. 
And  Bob,  too,  who  had  all  day  imagined  a  thou 
sand  perils  that  might  beset  his  protege',  you  may 
be  sure  he  rejoiced  also,  and  felt  how  sweet  it  is 
to  have  a  dear  heart  looking,  waiting  lovingly  our 
return. 

Bob  needn't  have  been  anxious  for  poor  little 
Minnie.  People  do'nt  covet  orphans.  People  do  n't 
go  out  of  their  way  to  befriend  broken-back  children. 
People  do  n't  steal  little  ugly  deformed  children,  for 
they  are  not  apt  to  be  serviceable  unless  they  are 
hideous  like  Hervio  Nano. 

So  the  two  children  sat  together,  and  talked,  and 
laughed,  and  Bob  did  n't  go  to  the  theatre  any  more. 


THE    FIEST    Kiss.  153 

He  was  somehow  so  content  that  he  did  n't  care  to  go 
anywhere,  but  only  to  stay  with  Minnie  and  hear  her 
talk,  and  see  her  little  wan  face  light  up  with  smiles 
at  his  coming,  and  have  her  kiss  him  again  and  again, 
and  say  "good  bye,  good  bye,  dear,  good  Bob," 
when  he  went  away  of  a  morning,  and  "  dear,  good 
Bob,"  when  he  returned  at  night.  And  then  the 
walks  they  took,  and  the  sights  they  saw,  would  ex 
ceed  the  limits  of  my  book  to  tell. 

They  didn't  need  to  cry,  "  Oh  for  a  lodge  in 
some  vast  wilderness,"  for  they  had  a  wilderness  ready 
made  in  the  heart  of  the  great  stirring  city  ;  a  wilder 
ness  more  solitary  than  the  wild  country  region  can 
furnish  forth — where  people  seem  to  each  other  dim 
and  shadowy  like  trees  walking,  for  no  one  sees  his 
neighbor  face  to  face,  only  a  moving  mass  of  tailoring 
and  dress-making,  placed  upon  machines,  with  cold, 
hard  eyes  looking  out  from  painted  faces.  You 
wouldn't  think  there  was  ever  a  heart  amongst  them 
all.  You  thread  in  and  out  amongst  them,  as  you 
would  amidst  the  boles  of  trees,  only  sometimes  you 
see  as  it  were  the  eyes  of  a  fiend  gleam  out  from 
amid  curls  or  whiskers. 

Bob  and  Minnie  did  not,  could  not  fully  appreciate 

7* 


154:  THE   NEWSBOY. 

the  blessedness  of  their  poverty,  which,  left  them 
to  be  so  much  to  each  other.  The  beggars  all  knew 
them  by  sight,  but  Bob  feeling  a  supreme  disgust 
for  their  habits,  never  affiliated  with  them.  The 
Newsboys  respected  Bob,  and  were  loth  to  lose 
him  from  their  haunts,  but  as  he  was  the  same 
good,  wise  Bob,  they  didn't  interfere.  He  had 
changed  his  quarters  from  the  old  stage  to  a  dilapidat 
ed  car,  which  he  had  patche  d  up  to  quite  a  look  of 
comfort,  and  really  little  Minnie  had  learned  to  keep 
house  nobody  could  tell  how,  and  she  kept  herself 
and  Bob  looking  nice  in  quite  an  astonishing  manner. 
I  wish  I  could  follow  Bob  now  for  three  or  four 
years,  and  tell  how  much  he  did,  and  how  he  was  not 
quite  happy,  because  he  wished  to  learn  so  much  and 
had  no  means  of  learning,  because  he  had  more 
than  one  or  two  to  support,  and  felt  that  his  labor  was 
needed.  The  story  of  all  this  would  quite  tire  my 
readers,  and  so  I  will  go  back  now  only  to  the  period 
when  I  first  spoke  to  Bob,  premising  that  I  am 
often  ashamed  of  my  dumbness  by  which  I  lose  the 
opportunity  of  saying  the  timely  word.  It  was  a 
good  miracle  that  in  which  Jesus  cast  out  the  dumb 
devil. 


XXIV. 


I  HAD  often  seen  Bob  and  Minnie  in  mj  walks. 
I  had  often  felt  as  if  I  would  like  to  speak  to  them, 
but  I  had  not  the  right,  and  could  not  well  find  a  mo 
tive.  Besides  they  seemed  quite  enough  for  each  oth 
er,  and  I  did  not  feel  that  I  was  essential  to  them. 
At  length  after  a  summer  absence  in  the  country  I 
encountered  Bob,  looking  so  changed  that  I  stopped 
instinctively,  for  I  saw  that  he  had  not  forgotten  me. 
After  some  talk  I  said,  as  I  have  recorded  in  the 
opening  of  my  book, 

"  And  so  your  name  is  Bob;  that  means  Eobert. 
Eobertwhat?" 

"There  ain't  no  Eobert  about  it.  My  name  is 
Bob." 

"  Well,  what  is  your  father's  name  ?" 


156  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"  I  never  had  any  father ;  I  was  sea-born." 

I  tried  not  to  smile — I  think,  indeed  I  am  confi 
dent  I  did  not  smile  outwardly,  for  I  did  not  see  the 
little,  quaint,  old  image  of  a  man  before  me,  but  a 
soul  full  of  dim  intimations,  over-written  with 
strange,  incomprehensible  characters,  which  perplexed 
and  oppressed  poor  Bob  mightily. 

"  And  where  is  your  mother  ?" 

"  I  never  had  any  mother;  I  tell  you  I  was  sea 
born.  The  folks  took  me  ashore,  and  I've  been  a 
comin'  up  ever  since.  But  what  I  want  to  find  out 
is,  about  meetin's  and  prayin's.  I  don't  know  nothin'. 
And  she's  a  dyin'  you  see.  I  know  it.  I  feel  it. 
There's  a  little  blue  vein  across  her  nose,  and  it  grows 
bluer  and  bluer ;  and  this  here  ring  is  too  big  for  any 
one  of  her  fingers  now — and  I  got  a  rose  tree,  and 
named  one  little  bud  Minnie,  and  I  said  if  that  bud 
blows  out  into  a  rose,  Minnie  will  get  well ;  if  it 
does  n't,  Minnie  will  die.  Last  night  the  bud  dropped 
off  dead." 

And  here  poor  Bob  wiped  his  streaked  face  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  ragged  coat. 

"  Let  me  go  and  see  Minnie ;  it  may  be  I  can  cure 
her." 


Poo  it    CHILDKEN.  157 

"  No  you  don't.  I  want  to  learn  about  the  pray- 
in',  and  then  I  can  do  it  all  myself.  Which  is  the 
best  meetin',  the  Trinity  or  the  Broadway  ?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"I  mean  the  Trinity  Church,  or  the  Broadway 
Theatre.  I've  been  to  both  of  'em,  and  to  the  Cathe 
dral,  and  Bowery,  and  Chatham,  and  all  them  places ; 
and  I  like  the  Bowery  best." 

"  "Why,  Bob!  they  are  not  the  least  alike;  the 
Broadway  ~is  "for  amusement,  and  the  Trinity  is  a 
place  for  prayer." 

"  They  over  do  it  there.  Makes  a  fellow  feel  all 
of  a  gloom." 

Bob  did  not  clearly  understand  the  difference  be 
tween  a  theatre  and  a  church.  "What  he  wanted  was 
aid  for  the  spirit,  and  he  did  not  know  to  which  he 
should  apply.  Besides  his  habits  of  life  had  been 
such  as  to  engender  a  natural  distrust,  and  his  love 
for  Minnie  led  him  to  suppose  that  if  anybody  was 
admitted  into  his  confidence,  somehow  she  would  be 
lured  away  from  him.  The  boy  over  estimated  hu 
man  fellowship.  "I'm  heavy Jiere,  heavy  here,"  and 
poor  Bob  laid  his  dirty  hand  upon  a  rag  of  a  shirt  that 
hardly  hid  his  little  bony  casement  for  a  big  heart. 


158  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Bob,  let  me  go  and  pray  with  Minnie,  and,  per 
haps,  I  can  ease  her  ;  and  I  will  help  you,  and  teach 
yon  both." 

"  I  tell  you,  ye  do  n't  come  it.  Do  n't  I  know 
how  the  folks  do ?  I'm  a  little  feller,  but  I  tell  ye 
what,  they  do  n't  take  me,  and  Minnie,  and  Dady  off 
to  the  Island  while  I  'm  Bob." 

There  was  a  family,  indeed.  "  Who  is  Minnie  and 
Dady?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  they  's  my  children,  to  be  sure,"  said  the 
boy,  drawing  up  his  little  bones,  and  planting  a  pair 
of  over-grown  feet  firmly,  said  feet  slipping  here  and 
there  in  an  old  pair  of  shoes,  a  world  too  large. 

"Your  children  !  how  came  they  yours?  Where 
are  their  parents  ?" 

"Never  had  any — never  wanted  any.  Minnie  had 
a  mother,  but  she  's  drownded.  Them  that 's  got  no 
mothers,  is  jist  as  well.  What  with  the  drinkin'  and 
the  sinnin',  they  does  n't  do  much  for  children,  only 
to  beat  'em,  and  make  'em  beg  and  steal.  I  takes  two 
on  'em,  I  does." 

"  You  are  a  noble  boy,  a  great-hearted  boy,  Bob." 

"  That's  it.  I  feel  it  a  beatin',  and  a  beatin',  when 
U  hear  the  great  whips  crack  upon  the  poor  horses ; 


POOR   OHILDEEN.  159 

and  when  I  hear  poor  children,  what  wants  bread, 
cryin',  and  cryin',  it  beats  harder,  harder.  And  when 
I  heard  Dady  a  screaming  in  the  lot,  and  the  wind 
blowin'  cold,  and  the  folks  all  goin'  by,  I  ran  too,  but 
my  heart  went  thump,  thump,  I  knew  I  ought  to  go 
back ;  and  so  I  did,  and  fetched  her  along,  and  me 
and  Broken-back  took  care  of  her — Minnie  's  Broken- 
back,  you  know.  Sometimes  I  couldn't  get  the 
bread,  for  I  does  n't  always  make  the  money ;  and 
once  I  went  to  a  man  what  lives  in  one  of  the  big 
houses.  They  'd  got  a  baby  'bout  as  large  as  Dady, 
and  so  I  went  and  told  him  I  'd  got  a  baby  outside  in 
the  old  car,  and  I  wanted  something  for  it  to  eat. 
But  he  didn't  give  nothing.  So  I  rung  to  a  good 
many  doors ;  and  at  last  I  did  n't  ring,  but  I  walked 
right  in,  and  I  took  some  bread  right  out  of  the 
kitchen  afore  their  eyes,  and  then  they  cried  thief, 
thief!  and  the  stars  were  seen  shinin'  here  and  all 
about  after  Bob  ;  but  they  did  n't  cotch  him.  But, 
good  bye ;  Minnie 's  dying,  and  all  the  prayer  I  knows 
is,  "  *  Oh  Lord,  Lord,  thy  kingdom  come.' " 

Now,  this  prayer  of  poor  Bob's  was  far  more  sig 
nificant  than  he  conceived.  It  is  the  great  prayer  for 
the  poor ;  for  when  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord  shall 


160  THE   NEWSBOY. 

come,  men  will  no  more  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  human 
wants.  As  I  thought  this,  Bob  disappeared  down  a 
dark  alley,  and  I  lost  sight  of  him.  But  I  could  not 
banish  him  from  my  mind.  "  Do  good  as  ye  have 
opportunity,"  is  a  simple  injunction,  which  this  great 
hearted  Newsboy  had  obeyed  literally,  while  you  and 
I  have  hardly  thought  of  its  import. 

"  Here 's  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune,  Herald, 
Times,  Express." 

A  party  was  emerging  from  Taylor's  princely 
saloon,  when  the  cry  of  the  Newsboy  reached  my 
ear.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  rich,  flowing,  mag 
netic  tones  of  Bob,  the  boy  with  the  heart  too  big  for 
his  jacket,  that  kept  up  its  great  human  beat  in  spite 
of  rags  and  poverty ;  that  worked  harder  and  harder 
at  the  sight  of  wrong  and  misery,  till  Bob  had  become 
all  heart  and  bone. 

"What  had  he  to  do  there  amid  gold  and  marble, 
and  fruits  and  flowers,  and  jewels  and  silks — he  with 
his  ragged  gaberdine,  and  worse  than  shoeless  feet ! 
Bob  knew  his  destiny,  and  aimed  for  the  best ;  there 
were  dens  of  wickedness  and  sinks  of  corruption 
where  orphans,  and  outcasts  seek  to  hide  themselves 
and  their  misery  from  human  eye,  but  Bob  did  not 


POOR    CHILDEEN.  161 

belong  with  such.  There  was  a  something  in  that 
great  heart  of  his  that  reached  for  the  good,  the  beau 
tiful  ;  and  this  he  sought.  Bob  never  saw  himself  as  a 
skin-of-a-little-old-boy,  thin  and  ragged,  despised  and 
poor,  but  he  saw  only  the  soul  of  goodness  and 
human  kindness,  and  manly  courage,  waiting  to 
emerge  from  his  rags  and  poverty  into  a  true  beauti 
ful  life.  So  when  the  people  stared  as  he  elbowed 
amongst  them,  and  foolish  men  frowned,  and  gay 
women  tittered,  and  the  menials  ordered  him  out,  Bob 
did  not  take  this  disdain  to  himself,  but  stood  man 
fully  at  the  marble  counter,  and  presented  his  little 
yellow  bowl  for  a  shilling  ice,  and  did  not  even  see 
nor  hear  the  suppressed  laughter  at  his  expense. 

Bob  put  down  his  shilling  with  an  air ;  he  had  a 
right  to  the  air,  had  it  been  ten  times  more  elaborate 
than  it  was,  for  he  had  earned  it  bravely. 

"  Tell  me  if  Minnie  is  better,  Bob." 

"  No,  she  is  worser,  a  great  deal  worser." 

"  And  you  here  buying  ice  cream  !" 

"  Ah,  its  for  Minnie,  poor  dear  Minnie,"  and  the 
boy  turned  the  corner  at  a  run,  to  hide  the  tears  that 
streaked  his  face  like  a  zebra.  Down,  down  to  near 
the  water's  edge,  beyond  piles  of  lumber,  across  old 


162  THE    NEWSBOY. 

desolate  looking  lots,  which  their  owners  would  not 
sell,  till  every  inch  of  ground  was  worth  a  surface  of 
gold  :  through  crooked  alleys,  from  whence  issued 
sounds  of  terrible  revelry,  passed  the  boy  ;  children 
cowered  upon  door-sills,  or  nodded  upon  curb-stones, 
for  there  was  no  bed  for  them,  while  the  elders  revel 
led  within.  Weary  little  things,  they  had  no  childish 
ways,  no  winning  love-ways,  no  talks  with  each  other, 
for  the  night  was  upon  them  and  yet  they  could  not 
rest. 

Charles  Lamb  has  affectingly  said,  that  uthe  chil 
dren  of  the  poor  never  prattle."  Alas  !  alas !  that  this 
should  be  the  fact,  that  the  simple  needs  of  food  and 
warmth  should  be  so  hardly  earned ;  that  all  the  sweet 
gushings  out  of  the  young  hearts  should  be  turned  to 
stone  ere  they  leap  from  the  fountain.  Look  at  the 
children,  who  sweep  the  crossings  of  our  streets — sal 
low,  and  pinched,  with  little  care-worn  faces  and  thin 
lips,  eager,  importunate,  and  filthy.  My  God  !  I  have 
felt  my  very  soul  recoil  at  seeing  childhood,  nay  girl 
hood  so  imbittered  and  degraded  ;  creatures  who 
should  chase  the  butterfly,  who  should  wait,  playing 
with  the  blossom ;  whose  April  tears  should  mix  with 
the  sunshine,  thus  driven  to  the  outskirts  of  human 


POOR   CHILDREN.  163 

sympathy,  haggling,  prematurely  old,  cold,  calculating 
and  severe.  Yerily  we  need  patience,  and  we  need 
faith  to  wait  and  hope  for  the  good  which  is  to  re 
deem  humanity  from  its  many  wrongs,  its  many  bur 
dens  ;  but  thanks  be  to  God,  who,  when  he  gave  man 
the  material  world  to  be  subjected  to  his  will,  reserved 
the  gifts  of  the  spirit  to  himself,  and  though  men  may 
withhold  aid  and  comfort,  the  hard  to  be  earned 
bread,  he  sendeth  "visions  in  the  night  season," 
giveth  his  love,  the  bounty  of  thought,  and  the  afflu 
ence  of  the  things  "  unseen."  He  poureth  into  the 
soul  of  the  poor  squalid  child  of  poverty,  dreams  as 
fair,  it  may  be  fairer  than  those  which  come  to  the 
daintiest  cared-for  child  of  wealth. 

I  love  children,  for  in  truth  I  am  little  less  than  a 
child  myself.  I  don't  mind  it.  Children  are  nearest 
heaven,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Bad  men  and  wo 
men,  whose  crimes  make  them  afraid  in  the  night  time, 
have  no  fears  if  they  can  have  an  innocent  child  to 
sleep  with  them,  for  the  angels  come  wherever  the 
child  is,  and  they  keep  evil  spirits  at  a  distance,  hold 
ing  ward  and  watch  over  the  pure  in  heart.  Did  not 
the  good  Saviour  love  little  children,  declaring  the 
heavenly  to  be  such  ? 


XXY. 

filth 


As  Bob  approached  the  old  car,  lie  moved  more 
slowly  ;  indeed  it  seemed  as  if  lie  dreaded  its  prox 
imity  ;  for  once  he  neared  it,  and  then  he  went  back  a 
space,  and  talked  to  himself  in  an  under  tone  : 

"  I  wishes  I  did  n't  love  her  —  I  wishes  I  had  given 
her  the  bread  and  clothes,  and  then  let  her  go." 

At  length  Bob  put  his  ear  down  to  the  little  door, 
listened,  and  then  entered  hastily,  closing  it  after  him. 
"  Dear,  good  Bob,"  was  uttered  in  a  small,  weak  voice, 
then  the  crowing  of  the  baby,  Dady,  showed  how 
fondly  the  great-hearted  boy  was  expected  home. 

Presently  the  door  opened  again,  and  was  as 
gently  closed,  and  then  Bob  rushed  round  the  corner 
of  the  little  dwelling,  and  throwing  himself  upon  his 
back,  brought  his  feet  up  into  the  air,  resting  against 


THE   LITTLE    DREAMEK.  165 

the  house,  and  all  the  time  groaning  bitterly,  and  the 
big  heart  working  as  if  it  were  not  only  too  big  for 
the  jacket,  but  for  its  casement  of  bones  also. 

"  Oh  Lord,  Lord,  thy  kingdom  come,"  burst  from 
his  lips ;  "  Oh  Minnie,  Minnie,  dear  little  broken- 
back,  poor  little  broken-back,  Bob's  heart's  a-break- 
ing." 

Bob  had  been  heart-sore  a  thousand  times — he  had 
been  foot-sore  all  his  life — it  seemed  as  if  all  his  pain 
and  suffering  must  have  a  seat  somewhere  in  the  re 
gion  of  those  dilapidated  shoes ;  and  now  that  his  great 
heart  ached  beyond  endurance,  and  his  poor  head, 
that  had  never  ached  before — never  worked  before — 
was  all  bursting  with  pain  and  grief,  sick  with  plans 
to  save  poor  Minnie,  Bob  instinctively  brought  his 
feet,  now  free  from  pain,  up  where  his  head  should 
be ;  and  so  his  aching  head  lay  upon  the  ground  in 
place  of  his  feet,  and  the  great  heart  beat,  beat,  be 
tween  them  both,  saying,  "  Poor  head,  maddened  by 
ignorance,  wrung  with  questioning,  working  in  blind 
ness  and  neglect,  God  help  you.  Poor  feet,  that  have 
trod  the  burning  plough-share,  and  the  heavy  wine 
press,  God  lead  ye." 

At  length  Bob  arose,  and  wiped   his  eyes,  and 


166  THE    NEWSBOY. 

smote  liis  hands  upon  his  head,  and  shook  himself  all 
over,  as  if  by  dint  of  shaking  and  stamping  he  might 
rid  himself  of  his  grief. 

"  Oh !  gorry,  gorry,  how  she  looks.  Oh  gorry, 
her  arms  are  like  a  pipe-stem,  and  her  eyes  like  coals 
o'  fire.  Minnie,  Minnie,  don't  you  die,"  and  a  flood 
of  tears  again  burst  from  his  eyes. 

At  this  moment  Bob  looked  up  to  the  sky. 
"  Them  stars  pepper  the  sky  all  over,  and  keep  a 
winkin'  and  a  winkin',  just  as  if  they  didn't  want  to 
cry.  And  Minnie  will  go  amongst  'em,  and  poor  Bob 
will  never  be  loved  anymore!"  After  brave  efforts 
to  look  cheerful,  Bob  went  in  again. 

Minnie  lifted  her  head  from  her  little  straw  pillow, 
and  stretched  out  her  hands  to  Bob,  who  took  her 
into  his  arms,  and  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 
And  there  they  sat,  Minnie  so  content,  for  she  did  not 
see  the  tears  arising  from  the  eyes  of  Bob — and  Dady 
was  too  busy  in  lapping  out  the  yellow  bowl  that  had 
contained  the  ice,  to  heed  either. 

"Was  the  ice  good,  Minnie?  Was  the  ice  good, 
little  broken-back?"  asked  Bob,  making  great  faces  to 
look  cheerful,  and  speaking  very  loud  lest  his  voice 
should  tremble. 


THE    LITTLE    DKEAMEK.  167 

"Oh,  so  good,  Bob,"  said  an  alert  little  voice. 
"  And,  look  here,  brother,  I  'm  getting  well,  I  am." 

"  I  know  it — you  don't  cough  now.  Oh,  the  ice  '11 
cure  you;  I  knew  it  would.  It  '11  cure  you,  Min 
nie — 'cause  why,  it 's  coolin'  like.  Oh,  little  broken- 
back,  we  '11  have  good  times  yet,  we  will.  "We  '11 
go  on  the  top  of  the  Eeservoir ;  we  '11  cross  to  Brook 
lyn,  and  we'll  hear  the  birds  a  singin',  and  see  the 
grass  a  growin'." 

"  Yes,  Bob,  and  we  '11  go  and  find  that  beautiful 
house,  I  dream  about.  Oh,  the  pretty  house,  all 
white,  white !  Last  night  I  thought  a  white  dove 
come  in  and  sat  upon  my  bosom,  and  when  I  opened 
my  eyes  the  room  was  all  light,  and  then  I  heard  such 
beautiful  music.  Oh,  Bob,  we  '11  go  out  again  and 
stand  in  the  area  of  some  great  house,  and  hear  the 
ladies  sing  inside,  won't  we,  Bob  ?" 

"  That  we  will,  Minnie  ;  and  you  shall  have  roses 
every  day,  and  nice  fruit,  and  a  new  gown,  all  pink, 
and  a  ribbon  in  your  hair,  Minnie." 

Minnie  clapped  her  little  hands,  and  put  a  great 
loud  kiss  on  Bob's  cheek,  and  chirruped  to  Dady,  and 
looked  almost  beautiful  with  her  burning  eyes  and 
cheeks. 


168  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"Now,  Bob,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  sleep,  I'm 
so  tired.  Ob,  it  is  so  beautiful  to  sleep,  and  see  the 
waters  going,  going,  and  the  fields  all  green,  and  such 
music,  Bob ;  put  your  head  close  to  mine,  and  you  'II  get 
my  dream.  Hark,  darling  Bob,  don't  you  hear  the 
music  ?" 

Minnie's  breath  was  very  low,'  and  her  little 
shoulders  and  breast  began  to  heave,  but  she  smiled 
sweetly.  Once  she  opened  her  eyes  and  said,  "Bob, 
don't  you  get  my  dream?  Don't  you  see  all  the 
beautiful  faces  ?"  Then  she  opened  them  again  very 
slowly.  "  Oh,  Bob,  we  will  go — no  more  hunger,  no 
more  cryin'  for  bread,  no  more  cold,  no  more  cruelty ; 
we  will  go  brother.  They  call  Minnie,  Minnie ;  they 
don't  call  Bob.  Oh,  they  don't  call  Bob,"  and  the 
little  thin,  bony  arms  clung  closer  and  closer  about 
the  neck  of  the  boy,  as  if  she  could  not,  would  not 
go  that  dark,  mysterious  way  alone ;  and  then  the 
clasp  relaxed,  the  head  slipped  aside,  and  poor  Min 
nie's  brief  candle  went  out  so  softly,  that  she  seemed 
but  to  sleep. 


XXVI. 


IT  was  late  in  the  niglit  when  Bob  lighted  his 
little  lamp,  and  ventured  to  look  into  the  face  of  Min 
nie.  Dady  had  fallen  asleep  with  the  yellow  bowl 
between  her  knees,  and  the  boy  took  her  gently  in 
his  arms  and  laid  her  beside  the  dead  child.  Was 
there  nothing,  no  spirit,  think  you,  in  the  great  uni 
verse,  to  smile  approval  upon  the  forsaken  boy,  with 
out  home  or  friends,  who  struggled  thus  bravely  to 
live,  who  followed  thus  untaught  the  promptings  of 
the  divine  within  us  ?  —  who  built  up  his  tabernacle 
unaided,  and  sheltered  the  outcasts  of  human  society 
like  himself  ?  Bob  thought  not. 

"  Why  did  I  save  her  ?  why  did  I  love  her  ?  I 
wish  I  did  n't  do  it.  I  wish  I  'd  left  'em  both  to  die, 
and  then  I  should  n't  be  here  cryin'  my  heart  out. 

I  '11  never  love  nothin'  again  ;  never,  I  won't." 

8 


170  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Little  Dady  in  her  sleep  had  turned  and  seized  the 
hand  of  Bob,  just  at  this  moment,  and  the  boy  put 
his  cheek  to  hers,  and  kissed  the  sleeper  who  would 
waken  with  the  sun  to  new  life  ;  and  kissed  also  the 
•other  sleeper  who  would  awake  no  more  here,  but 
who  should  awake  with  the  Son  of  Righteousness  to 
a  new  and  unending  life  ;  and  just  at  this  moment  a 
clear  voice  rang  out,  loud  and  beautiful, 

"  Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  you  languish, 
Come,  at  the  shrine  of  God  fervently  kneel ; 
Here  bring  your  wounded  hearts,  here  tell  your  anguish." 

Poor  Bob  now  had  found  some  words  expressive 
of  his  grief,  and  he  repeated  over  and  over,  with  great 
tears,  "  Here  bring  your  wounded  hearts — 0  Lord,  O 
Lord,  thy  kingdom  come — here  bring  your  wounded 
hearts,"  till  his  head  fell  upon  the  pillow  beside  poor 
Minnie,  and  he  slept. 

I  know  not  who  sang  the  words,  but  it  is  a  lovely 
thing  to  waken  the  still  voices  of  night  with  holy 
hymns,  for  the  great  family  of  man  holds  many  who 
need  the  "  word  fitly  spoken,"  and  the  response  of 
something  better  and  sweeter  than  lives  in  their  own 
hearts. 

The  great  city  was  gradually  sinking  into  quiet. 


THE    THREE    SLEEPERS.  171 

Already  the  heavy  rumble  of  the  stages  and  railway 
cars  had  died  away,  and  only  those  who  revelled  late 
were  out,  or  those  who  waken  like  the  night  bird  and 
beast  of  prey  to  evil  deeds. 

When  the  sun  came  up  from  over  Long  Island 
and  kissed  goldenly  the  waters  of  the  Sound,  he 
pressed  genially  the  great  domes  of  the  Custom  House 
and  the  Merchants'  Exchange,  till  they  looked  like  a 
shield  burnished  for  the  battle,  the  great,  evil  battle 
of  Traffic,  which  goes  on  daily  beneath  them;  he 
tipped  the  spires  of  Grace  and  Trinity,  each  with  a 
touch  as  of  a  heart  glowing  with  ecstatic  prayer ;  he 
stole  slowly  over  gloomy  ranges  of  brick  blocks, 
fainter  and  colder  in  his  beams  as  he  penetrated  the 
heart  of  the  great  city,  till  he  peered  into  the  little 
window  of  the  old  railway-car,  where  he  looked  softly 
upon  the  sleepers.  He  gave  a  ruby  tinge  to  the  lips 
of  Dady — he  circled  the  head  of  Minnie  with  bright 
light,  gleaming  amid  her  dark,  damp  hair,  and  light 
ing  the  pure,  still  brow  with  a  holy  lustre.  He 
seemed  fearful  of  waking  poor  Bob,  for  he  only 
pressed  the  hard,  rough  hand  as  it  lay  over  the  head 
of  Minnie  ;  but  he  seemed  to  know  the  honest  hand 
lovingly ;  loved  its  hard,  serviceable  make,  all  em- 


172  THE    NEWSBOY. 

browned  as  it  was  ;  and  then  he  stole  softly  out  of  the 
window,  leaving  the  Three  Sleepers. 

The  next  day  Bob  had  a  heavy  task  to  perform, 
and  he  was  glad  to  go  out  leaving  Dady  fast  asleep, 
cuddled  though  she  was  close  to  the  cold,  hard  cheek 
of  poor  Minnie.  Bob  shuddered  to  see  this,  but  he 
hadn't  strength  to  move  the  sleepers.  The  rigid, 
marble  breast  of  Minnie  heaved  no  more,  and  the  thin 
arms  no  more  encircled  the  plump,  robust  form  of 
Dady,  whose  passionate  nature  induced  her  to  cling 
closely  to  her  protectors. 

Bob  closed  the  door  softly  on  his  way  out,  and 
observed  even  then  what  he  had  observed  many  times 
before,  and  which  he  remembered  long  years  after 
with  a  pang.  As  he  crossed  the  lot  into  the  street,  he 
saw  the  tall  dark  man  we  have  before  described,  who 
uttered  the  oath,  and  looked  so  intently  upon  the 
child  Imogen,  as  she  waltzed  on  the  pavement  in 
front  of  Stewart's.  He  had  been  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  an  elegant  mansion,  whose  in 
mates  as  yet  gave  little  evidence  of  stir.  The  tidy 
waiting-maid,  in  short  sleeves  and  smart  bodice, 
came  out  with  a  stone  pitcher  to  receive  the  milk 
man's  morning  deposit,  and  expend  a  word  and  not 


THE    THREE    SLEEPERS.  173 

a  little  coquetry  at  the  same  time.  As  she  turned 
to  enter  the  house,  the  ruffianly  man  with  the  maimed 
hand,  of  whom  we  have  before  spoken,  slid  around 
the  trunk  of  one  of  the  large  elms  that  sheltered  the 
area,  and  as  he  passed  the  stranger,  exchanged  with 
him  a  scarcely  perceptible  sign. 

Bob  remembered  this  afterwards  as  something  that 
had  been  graved  into  his  mind,  rather  than  as  a  thing 
of  which  he  had  been  cognizant.  So  little  had  he  ob 
served  the  surroundings  of  his  locality,  that  the  great 
stone  house,  with  its  stately  portico  and  carriage-way, 
looked  all  at  once  new  and  strange  to  him.  He  had 
hardly  known  before  that  it  was  there,  and  yet  he  had 
an  indefinite  idea  that  it  had  been  there  for  two  or 
three  years,  though  his  mind  had  not  taken  in  the 
fact  till  the  present  time.  Now  that  he  was  so  deso 
late  within,  that  he  began  to  look  abroad  for  some 
thing  to  stay  him,  he  was  aware  that  for  two  or  three 
years  that  splendid  house  had  been  evil  haunted.  In 
the  night  time  could  the  inmates  have  thought  of 
looking  out,  they  would  have  seen  sometimes  one, 
two,  or  three  low,  ruffianly  creatures  lurking  about 
the  precincts.  They  seemed  to  be  mere  loiterers,  idle 
vagrants,  who  leered  at  the  maids,  drank  at  the  pump, 


174  THE    NEWSBOY. 

rested  a  brief  space  upon  the  step,  or  descended  the 
area,  begging  in  the  character  of  a  poor  sailor  ship 
wrecked  and  ruined.  The  people  gave  in  their 
abundant  pity,  but  had  they  known  more  of  the 
sailor,  they  would  have  recognized  an  impostor,  for 
the  genuine  sailor  never  begs. 

Sometimes  it  was  a  poor  refugee  who  had  been 
maimed  in  the  wars  for  freedom,  and  they  gave  him 
for  the  love  of  God.  Sometimes  it  was  a  bold,  careless 
loafer,  who  whistled  to  the  girls  at  night  as  they  stood 
by  the  window,  (the  light  in  the  room  shining  behind 
them,)  and  loosened  the  strings  of  their  bodices.  But 
whatever  was  the  shape,  it  was  still  the  same  three. 
They  didn't  seem  to  care  for  plunder — they  had 
money,  all  that  sufficed  their  gross  natures,  but  they 
watched  all  the  orderings  of  the  household.  They 
knew  at  what  time  its  inmates  went  and  came,  and 
their  number  and  habits.  It  seemed  an  idle  surveil 
lance,  such  as  people  sometimes  carry  on  from  sheer 
lack  of  something  else  to  do. 

The  dark  man  of  whom  we  have  spoken  also 
might  be  seen,  night  after  night,  leaning  against  a 
tree  opposite,  silent  and  motionless  as  the  trunk  that 
supported  him,  looking  up  to  the  elegantly-draped 


THE    THREE    SLEEPERS.  175 

windows.  If  the  child  Imogen  crossed  the  window,  or 
came  out  under  the  portico,  his  eyes  lightened  with 
a  keen  glance.  He  watched  her  every  movement  as 
the  snake  eyes  the  dove ;  and  when  she  went,  he  went 


He  was,  as  we  have  shown,  tall,  dark,  and  elegant 
in  appearance.  His  head  was  well  shaped — there  was 
a  slight  preponderance  of  the  passions,  but  not  enough 
to  mar  the  fineness  of  proportion.  The  eyes  were 
deep  set,  large,  black,  and  melancholy ;  the  mouth 
firmly  cut,  and  shaded  by  a  moustache,  while  an  im 
perial  gave  a  haughty  and  yet  handsome  ornamental 
look  to  the  face.  With  all  this,  the  impression  he 
produced  was  a  painful  one.  You.  felt  an  instinctive 
shrinking  from  the  man,  handsome  as  he  certainly 
was,  and  you  referred  it  all  to  a  peculiarity  of  the 
nose,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  sinister  quality.  It 
was  Greek  in  form,  yet  higher  than  the  Greek  outline 
would  justify,  without  being  Eoman.  It  came  down 
with  well-defined  nostrils,  and  then  all  at  once  the 
latter  were  notched  in  as  it  were  near  the  point  of  the 
nose,  thus  breaking  and  somewhat  marring  the 
beauty  of  outline. 

This  morning  Bob  instinctively  followed  his  eyes 


176  THE    NEWSBOY. 

to  a  curtained  window,  where  one  might  suppose  was 
a  chair  in  front.  A  hand  put  by  the  curtains,  and 
there  might  be  seen  a  small  shape  sitting  with  her 
back  to  the  window,  while  a  waiting-maid  combed 
out  and  brushed,  one  by  one,  locks  of  long  rich  brown 
hair  that  shaded  the  little  head. 

Bob  thought  of  Minnie,  and  he  thought  if  she 
could  have  been  thus  delicately  cared. for,  she  too 
might  sit  in  the  golden  light,  the  sunshine  in  her 
heart,  and  upon  her  head.  The  mystery  was  coming 
back  to  the  mind  of  the  Newsboy.  He  did  n't  know 
that  death  and  misery  are  always  bed-fellows. 

There  was  one  who  had  slept  and  was  arisen. 
How  should  poor  Bob  know  that  Minnie  also  slept 
and  had  arisen. 


XXVII. 

i  0n  t[u 


"  I  MUST  do  it  ;  yes,  I  must  do  it.  I  shan't  love 
her  none.  Gorry,  no  1  I  shall  hate  her  ;  so  I  '11  take 
her  in.  She  '11  die  afore  long,  poor  thing  1" 

Bob  was  leaning  against  a  lamp-post  at  the  corner 
of  Broadway  and  Chambers  street,  where  sat  an  old 
woman  as  near  as  she  dared  sit  to  the  fashionable  ba 
zaar  of  Tiffany,  Young  &  Ellis. 

It  was  the  little  old  hunch-back,  who  used  to  sit 
with  her  basket  of  trifles,  which  nobody  bought,  upon 
the  steps  of  the  Astor  House,  and  afterwards  at  Stew 
art's  ;  she  had  been  voted  a  nuisance  by  the  upper 
tens,  and  had  crept  a  little  further  up  town.  She 
dared  not  sit  by  the  door,  because  the  men  turned  her 
away  ;  but  she  held  out  her  thin  hand  as  the  fine 

ladies  and  gentlemen  went  in  to  squander  their  thou- 

8* 


178  THE   NEWSBOY. 

sands  upon  gewgaws,  in  the  hope  that  as  they  came 
out  the  sweet  promptings  of  our  humanity  might  in 
duce  them  to  impart  a  trifle  for  a  creature  lacking 
bread.  Now  and  then,  a  pure-hearted  woman  or  an 
unselfish  child  gave  her  something,  but  oftener  she 
went  to  her  miserable  cellar  with  scarcely  enough  to 
pay  for  the  straw  upon  which  she  was  allowed  for  a 
nightly  stipend  to  sleep.  There  was  good  reason  fof" 
her  thin  hands  and  pale  face,  for  hunger  is  a  great  foe 
to  beauty. 

"Look  here,  Eack-o' -bones,  don't  you  want  a 
house  to  live  in  ?"  asked  Bob,  stooping  over  the  for 
lorn  object. 

"  Now  the  Lord  forgive  you  for  mocking  a  poor 
miserable  outcast,"  answered  the  old  woman,  in  a 
tone  so  solemn  that  it  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  Bob. 

"  Do  you  know  about  the  Lord?"  said  Bob. 

The  woman  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  I  say,  Eack-o'-bones,  do  you  know  about  the 
Lord  ? — because  if  you  do,  and  about  kingdom- come, 
and  prayin',  I  'm  the  man  for  you,  I  am  ;  cause  why  ? 
I  don't  know  nothin' — I  'm  a  heathen,  I  am,  and  an 
offscouring,  and  a  hooting  ;  them 's  what  I  am,  and  I 
want  to  learn  and  teach  Dady — cause  why  ?  poor 


THE    HAND    ON    THE    HEART.        179 

little  Broken-back's  dead,  and  I  does  n't  know  what 
to  do." 

The  woman  struggled  to  her  feet.  I  am  not  sure 
but  a  tear  was  in  her  old  eyes,  as  she  followed  Bob, 
telling  him  she  was  a  poor  outcast,  that  she  had  no 
friends,  &c.  Then  it  would  seem,  as  Bob  went  on 
with  his  little  history,  telling  all  about  his  two  chil 
dren,  forgotten  memories  awoke  in  the  mind  of  the 
old  woman,  and  she  laid  her  hand  trembling,  upon 
the  shoulder  of  Bob,  and  ejaculated, 

"  Now  the  Lord  God  bless  the  child,  for  surely  the 
very  spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon  him." 

Her  tone  and  manner  were  superior,  and  Bob  felt 
it,  and  rejoiced  in  it. 

"  Now  I  shall  learn — now  I  shall  read ;  but  gorry, 
I  shall  love  her,  I  'm  afraid,"  he  added  with  a  start,  as 
if  to  love  were  the  most  distressful  thing  in  the 
world. 

"  This  way,  mother  ;  stoop  your  rack-o'-bones," 
and  they  disappeared  within  the  little  dwelling,  the 
old  railway-car. 

Shortly  after  the  old  woman  came  to  the  door,  and 
lifted  up  her  hands,  weeping  ;  then  she  dried  her  eyes 
with  her  apron  and  went  back.  Then  Bob  came  out 


180  THE    NEWSBOY. 

with  the  little  yellow  bowl  and  a  small  basket — lie 
was  going  to  the  baker's ;  he  tried  to  whistle,  but  the 
lips  were  vibrating  with  the  big,  aching  heart,  and 
would  take  no  shape  for  a  whistle,  and  so  he  gave  it 
up.  Many  times  did  Bob  go  back  and  forth,  but  the 
old  woman  staid  within — she  had  solemn  work  in 
hand. 

Bob  sat  outside  with  Dady  upon  his  lap  looking 
up  into  the  great  sky,  so  vast,  so  silent,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  it  was  too  fair,  too  tender  looking  for  a 
world  like  this.  He  did  n't  know  how  it  is  the  out- 
looking  smile  of  benign  love,  stealing  into  our 
hearts,  and  making  them  glad,  when  no  one  cries 
"  lo  1  here,"  and  "  lo !  there,"  for  the  cause. 

Dady,  like  all  poor  children,  watched  the  face  of 
her  young  protector,  and  seeing  only  a  serious  look 
there,  she  was  not  justified  in  any  mirth,  so  she  did 
not  attempt  it,  but  kept  her  arm  over  his  neck  in 
silence. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  boy  was  seen  walking' 
slowly  down  Broadway,  with  a  small  coffin  under  his 
arm.  He  kept  "to  the  right,"  and  walked  very 
slowly.  The  people  all  started  away  from  him,  for 
few  are  willing  to  brush,  even  by  accident,  this  last 


THE   HAND   ON   THE   HEART.       181 

human  receptacle.  A  superstitious  dread  is  associated 
with  such  contact.  So  the  boy  went  on  unmolested. 
"  Some  child  is  dead,"  one  ejaculated ;  another  said, 
"  I  wish  they  would  keep  such  things  out  of  sight." 
"  A  coffin  going  home,"  said  another,  and  this  one 
spake  true,  for  earth  is  the  home  always  for  such  re 
ceptacles  ;  and  Bob  it  was,  going  home  with  poor 
Minnie — Minnie,  the  unknown,  unclaimed  child,  whose 
pure  spirit  was  known  only  to  the  Father  of  spirits, 
and  to  Bob,  the  Newsboy — Minnie,  who  came  and 
went,  and  left  no  record. 

Bob  was  unmolested  aboard  the  Staten  Island 
ferry-boat. 

"Whose  child  is  dead?"  asked  a  fatherly -looking 
man. 

"  It  is  Minnie,"  answered  Bob,  with  a  start  of  tears 
he  could  not  suppress. 

The  gentleman  respected  his  grief,  and  said  no 
more,  thinking  all  the  time  of  some  fair,  petted  crea 
ture  of  wealth,  for  who  could  suppose  that  a  poor, 
broken-backed  foundling  would  find  a  mourner  ?  So 
Bob  was  always  supposed  to  be  carrying  the  "coffin 
home,"  for  none  knew  that  beside  the  great  heart  of 


182  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Bob — carefully,  piously,  held  close  to  the  heart — 
was  all  that  was  left  of  little  Minnie. 

Bob  had  thought  once  of  going  to  the  Sisters  of 
Charity  to  beg  a  grave,  but  in  that  case  he  remem 
bered  that  the  enclosure  would  be  locked  up,  and  he 
would  find  it  difficult  to  gain  access  to  it.  He  felt  as 
if  this  grave  of  all  others  must  be  free  as  the  airs  of 
heaven,  and  free  for  him  to  visit  in  his  own  way. 
He  must  go  sometimes  and  ease  his  great  heart  where 
Minnie  slept.  He  went  down  to  the  South  Ferry, 
where  the  good  woman  who  had  so  often  befriended 
him  and  Minnie  still  kept  her  stall ;  but  now  she  had 
sat  in  the  hot  sun,  and  her  face  was  swollen  with 
erysipelas,  so  she  couldn't  see  in  the  least,  and  though 
tears  were  in  the  good  soul's  heart,  none  could  find 
egress  from  her  swollen  eyes.  Bob  detailed  his  plan, 
and  she  approved  of  it,  and  added, 

"  We  poor  bodies,  Bob,  '11  soon  be  forgotten ;  but 
I  thinks,  Bob,  there  's  an  angel  in  heaven  writing  your 
name  in  a  book,  higher  up  than  any  king's." 

"  It 's  the  love  that  does  it,  mother,"  responded  the 
Newsboy.  "I  doesn't  mind  nothing  now.  I  sings 
all  day  in  my  heart  till  Minnie  died,  and  now  my 
heart  swings,  swings  like  the  great  bell  a-tolling.  1 


THE    HAND    ON   THE    HEART.        183 

sings  no  more,  mother,"  and  he  turned  away.  He 
thought  of  Greenwood,  but  a  grave  costs  some 
thing  there,  and  now  that  Bob's  family  had  been 
somewhat  expensive,  he  could  not  pay  for  a  slip  of 
earth  in  which  to  bury  his  dead.  More  than  all  this, 
Minnie  had  been  nothing  to  anybody  in  the  whole 
world  but  to  Bob,  and  he  was  jealous  even  of  her 
ashes.  The  world  had  looked  so  coldly  upon  them, 
they  had  owed  it  so  little,  that  Bob  felt  as  if  he  wished 
now  to  receive  nothing  from  it. 

"I  wishes  we  could  all  step  out,"  he  said,  "and 
not  trouble  folks  to  bury  us.  "We  's  no  right  in  the 
world ;  'cause  why  ?  we  Ve  nothing  in  it.  No  house, 
nor  land,  nor  larnin',  nor  wit.  Minnie's  mother 
stepped  out.  Many  's  the  poor  wretch  what  steps  out 
in  the  same  way.  I  should  n't  do  it ;  'cause  why  ?  it 's 
agin  my  nater.  I  thinks  it  wrong.  We  's  put  here, 
and  we  must  wait  till  the  one  what  puts  us  here  gives 
us  a  call." 

All  this  passed  through  Bob's  brain  while  he 
planned  for  a  bit  of  earth  in  which  to  hide  the  ashes 
of  little  Minnie,  whose  lot  was  not  a  forlorn  one,  since 
God  sent  her  his  best  boon,  a  friend.  Alas  1  how 
often  have  you  and  I  looked  abroad,  and  longed  for 


18tt  THE   NEWSBOY. 

such,  a  boon !  Lovers  we  can  have,  but  love  is  selfish. 
It  likes  not  the  sigh  and  the  tear — it  shrinks  from  toil, 
and  sickness,  and  death — it  covets  roses  and  lilies, 
perfume  and  luxury.  "  Ye  are  my  friends,"  said  the 
blessed  Saviour,  and  we  feel  refreshed  and  holy  as  we 
draw  near  to  the  divine  image  of  our  Friend.  Take 
all  the  lovers  of  either  sex— take  all  the  wealth  of  the 
world — take  away  fame,  health,  and  beauty — give  us 
but  a  Friend,  and  we  have  all.  Serene,  heavenly  love, 
the  true  Friend  gives.  "What  is  mine  is  thine,"  saith 
the  true  Friend.  Treachery  and  slander  may  rob  us 
of  our  good  name,  but  the  true  Friend  loves  the  more, 
the  more  needy  we  become.  He  or  she,  the  true 
Friend,  is  by  us  in  sickness  or  in  death,  and  we  go 
from  the  earthly  to  the  divine  Friend,  for  the  one  is 
but  a  prototype  of  the  other. 

Bob  had  a  right  to  even  more  selfishness  in  the 
matter  of  Minnie.  Had  he  not  toiled  up  and  down 
the  great  wicked  city,  weary  of  foot,  though  strong  of 
heart,  to  get  her  bread  ?  Had  he  not  expended  his 
little  all  to  keep  the  wee  thing  looking  as  a  "  gal 
should  look,"  neat,  and  sweet,  and  as  pretty  as  a  little 
broken-back  could  look  ?  Had  he  not  sat  in  silence 
while  Minnie  pointed  her  bit  of  a  finger  upward,  and 


THE  HAND  ON  THE  HEART.   185 

said  "  Our  Father ;"  for  the  child  had  been  taught 
something,  somehow  before  she  came  to  live  with 
Bob  ?  And  when  they  all  went  out  to  look  at  the 
stars,  and  Minnie  felt  the  silver  chain  falling  from 
heaven,  always  nearer  and  nearer  about  her  heart,  did 
she  not  always  say  to  him, 

"  Bob,  dear,  good  Bob,  I  will  not  go  away.  No 
Bob,  I  will  stay,  and  when  you  feel  Minnie's  hand  on 
your  heart,  you  will  not  be  unhappy.  But  if  they  do 
call  me  home,  dear  Bob,  I  '11  come  again,  and  you  '11 
still  feel  Minnie's  hand  on  your  heart." 

Many  was  the  time  they  had  talked  in  this  way. 
Many  was  the  time  Minnie,  as  she  saw  the  tears  in 
Bob's  eyes,  would  say,  putting  her  poor  arm  about 
his  neck, 

"  Sometime  we  will  learn  about  the  beautiful 
country  I  see  when  we  sleep,  dear  Bob ;  and  if  I  go 
there,  I  will  come  back  again  and  comfort  poor  Bob, 
who  will  need  Minnie's  hand  on  his  heart." 

So  all  the  way  that  Bob  went,  down  to  the  place 
by  the  sea,  where  he  and  Sam  had  gone  so  many 
years  before,  when  Sam  was  learning  to  think  of 
Mary  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  he  felt 
the  little  soft  hand  of  Minnie  upon  his  heart.  This 


186  THE    NEWSBOY. 

spot  was  always  a  sunshine  spot  in  the  memory  of  the 
Newsboy,  and  here  in  a  little  grave,  away  down  by 
the  sea-shore,  he  laid  the  precious  burden.  He  found 
means,  unquestioned,  to  dig  the  grave  with  his  own 
hands,  saying  to  himself,  "  Oh,  I  could  not  have  her 
go  to  Potter's  Field.  Oh,  I  could  not  leave  Minnie 
there ;  but  here  will  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers 
come,  and  nobody  know  that  it  is  because  Minnie  *s 
underneath." 


XXVIII. 


BOB  had  returned  slowly  from  his  task,  and  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  Broadway  fell  upon  ears  deaf, 
and  eyes  blind  to  the  world  without.  He  turned 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left  ;  mechanically  he  saw 
a  child,  it  was  a  dirty,  ill-looking  child,  with  crooked 
legs,  and  skinny  arms  ;  its  face  was  marked  with  long 
lines  of  tears  —  canals  with  borderings  of  dust  for  em 
bankments,  down  which  the  opening  of  the  flood 
gates  sent  a  clean,  smooth  line  of  pure  water.  People 
heard  the  sobs,  looked  at  the  filthy  little  creature  and 
passed  on.  There  is  a  crossing  crowded  with  vehicles 
and  horses  —  surely  the  child  will  be  crushed  ;  it 
grows  terrified  and  opens  a  chasm  of  a  mouth.  Oh  I 
beauty,  beauty,  type  of  the  Eternal  !  in-felt  harmony 
to  which  the  dullest  natures  respond  !  had  the  child 


188  THE    NEWSBOY. 

been  thine,  had  one  touch  of  thy  exquisite  mouldings 
fallen  upon  it,  how  readily  succor  had  been  awarded  ! 
but  there  was  something  more  touching  in  that  squal 
id,  neglected  child  of  poverty ;  something  that  ap 
pealed  to  an  internal  sense,  lying  deeper  and  nearer 
to  the  well-spring  of  unchanging  beauty  ;  it  was  the 
mute  appeal  of  wronged  humanity — the  tear,  sacred 
in  all  eyes,  and  terribly  significant  in  the  eye  of  want, 
disease  and  neglect. 

Bob  saw  all  this,  and  his  great  heart  could  do  no 
less  than  respond  to  the  misery  before  him.  Minnie's 
little  hand  pressed  his  heart. 

"  No,  Minnie,  Bob  can't  do  any  more,  Bob's  heart's 
a-breakin'." 

And  then  the  little  hand  pressed  more  softly  in 
its  comfortings ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  the  eyes 
of  Minnie's  mother  once  more,  and  he  seized  the  hand 
of  the  lost  child.  A  laborer  passed  along,  and  Bob 
accosted  him : 

"  It  ain't  my  nater  to  see  any  creater  suffer,  but  I 's 
jist  from  the  funeral,  you  see.  Take  the  poor  thing 
to  the  station-house,  won't  you  ?" 

The  man's  heart  was  right,  but  he  had  a  house  full 
at  home  waiting  the  bread  he  carried  under  his  arm. 


THE   NIGHT   COMING.  189 

He,  one  of  the  people,  a  straggler  for  bread  not  lux 
ury,  looked  pitiful,  and  that  was  all  he  could  do.  Bob 
appealed  to  a  gentleman ;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
stared,  and  passed  on.  What  could  be  done?  At 
length  a  school-boy,  a  fine  young  fellow,  too  true,  and 
too  young  for  unmanly  pride,  and  too  generous  and 
impulsive  for  hesitation,  volunteered  to  put  the  poor 
thing  under  proper  care  at  the  station-house. 

Bob  relinquished  his  hold  with  some  twinges  of 
remorse — he  knew  the  child  was  deserted.  He  knew 
all  the  misery  done  up  in  that  little  moving  mass  of 
skin  and  bones.  As  he  gave  the  thin,  pale,  flaccid 
hand  into  that  of  its  new  protector,  the  child  turned  a 
last  imploring  look  upon  him,  a  look  half  soul,  half 
animal,  but  it  conveyed  the  whole  nature,  the  concen 
tration  of  the  entire  feeling  of  the  child.  He  passed 
on.  Children  beautiful,  well-cared  for,  precociously 
vain,  precociously  intellectual,  passed  by — dainty  chil 
dren,  unsoiled  and  unexceptionable — but  a  certain 
hardness  of  look,  a  common-place  content,  an  exter- 
nalness  of  life  removed  them  from  interest  and  sym 
pathy.  The  squalid  child  had  eyes  looking  out  from 
the  soul,  searching  into  the  recesses  thereof. 

Yes,  beauty  is  power — its  more  obvious  shapes  ap- 


190  THE   NEWSBOY. 

peal  instantly  to  the  observer,  while  the  more  hidden 
and  mysterious  touch  a  deeper  cord  of  deeper  na 
tures,  and  find  a  response  less  frequent,  but  not  the 
less  adapted  to  its  needs. 

Next  he  leaned  against  the  railing  in  front  of  the 
City  Hospital,  for  his  limbs  were  weak  and  the  stir 
ring  of  the  noble  old  trees  brought  the  image  of 
Minnie's  grave  to  his  mind. 

"  Key  to  lock,"  cried  the  old  lock  man  with  a 
short,  curt  voice,  jingling  his  keys,  and  looking  right 
and  left. 

"  Glass,  glass  to  mend ;"  the  glazier's  voice  is  al 
ways  the  same,  he  does  n't  seem  to  wait  for  anybody, 
yet  his  little  box,  which  he  carries  on  his  back,  is  al 
ways  full  of  broken  glass. 

"  Scissors  to  grind,  old  knives  to  grind,"  drawled 
out  the  grinder,  jingling  his  little  bell  as  if  vexed  at 
your  tardiness. 

"  Express,  Tribune,  Herald,  Times." 

"Bob,  my  boy,  how  are  you?"  and  Flashy  Jack 

.  gave  our  Newsboy  a  great  slap  on  the  back.     "  Why, 

what  'n  the  deuce  ails  you,  Bob  ?  got  the  mully -grubs  ? 

How 's  Hunch-back  ?  come,  hurry  up  the  cakes,  Bob, 

can't  wait — audience  '11  storm  like  mad." 


THE   NIGHT    COMING.  191 

11 1  thought  you  wouldn't  sell  anymore  papers, 
Jack,"  replied  Bob. 

"  Lent  a  hand  to  Squinty  while  he  carried  his 
mother  to  Potter's  Fields,  that's  all." 

Bob  shuddered ;  "  I 's  jist  been  to  bury  up  Min 
nie,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

^"ack,  wild  as  he  was,  laid  his  hand  on  Bob's 
shoulder  with  a  look  of  real  grief. 

"  I  '11  come  an'  see  you,  Bob  ;"  and  he  turned 
away,  just  as  Sister  Agnace  came  down  the  street  at 
tended  by  a  barefooted  Irish  girl,  she  intent  upon 
some  errand  of  mercy.  She  knew  Bob,  and  whis 
pered,  "  Benedicite,  my  son,"  as  she  went  by.  The 
tears  gathered  to  his  eyes,  for  he  knew  what  was  the 
meaning  more  by  the  tone  than  the  words. 

An  elderly  woman  who  sold  flowers,  took  a  rose 
bud  from  her  basket,  and  handed  it  to  Bob,  as  she 
turned  to  sell  a  bunch  to  a  young  man,  who  doubtless 
carried  it  to  eyes  brighter  for  his  coming. 

The  old  woman  gave  the  rose-bud  to  the  tear  in 
Bob's  eyes  more  than  to  him,  for  to  the  poor  misery 
is  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  and  they  have  few 
words  by  which  to  relieve  it,  therefore  are  they  ready 
with  numberless  small  human  offices. 


192  THE    NEWSBOY. 

The  old  beggars  were  creeping  up  town,  or  down 
to  the  Five  Points.  The  merchants  of  Wall  Street 
had  long  ago  gone  home  to  dinner.  The  wealthy,  os 
tentatious  parvenus,  with  their  liveried  carriages,  had 
ceased  the  exhibition  of  their  vulgar,  dull  lives. 

"  Minnie's  hand  '11  al'ays  be  on  Bob's  heart,"  he 
murmured,  starting  again  on  his  way  home,  for  itbwas- 
growing  late.  The  blind  black  man  who  sits  on  the 
curb  of  the  iron  fence  in  front  of  the  Hospital,  had 
long  since  crept  along  the  wall,  and  sunk  into  total 
eclipse.  The  boy  with  one  leg  who  sits  on  the  steps 
of  Delmonico's,  was  hobbling  by,  pale  and  hungry. 

The  clouds  had  been  gathering  in  the  north-west 
for  many  hours,  but  Bob  had  not  seen  it.  He  had 
seen  nothing  but  a  little  heap  of  earth,  with  a  sweet, 
pale  face  underneath ;  heard  nothing  but  the  beating 
of  his  own  great  heart,  very  slow  and  heavy,  as  if 
weary  of  its  work. 

Patter,  patter,  came  the  rain  down  upon  the  head 
of  the  Newsboy,  yet  he  had  not  felt  its  falling. 
Hundreds  had  eyed  him  with  curious  glance,  yet  he 
saw  them  not.  He  saw  not  how  the  darkness  was 
more  than  the  overhanging  clouds,  for  the  night  had 
come. 


XXIX. 


THE  street-lamps  had  been  long  lighted,  but  they 
gleamed  faintly  through  the  mist,  and  showed  the 
gutters  carrying  their  torrents  of  filth  away  into  se 
cret  channels  —  off,  till  the  great  sea  swallowed  up  all. 
There  was  a  din  of  stages,  loud  calls  of  passengers, 
and  drivers,  and  porters  ;  umbrellas  were  poked  into 
people's  faces,  and  the  clatter  of  feet  kept  turbulent 
time  with  the  pouring  rain.  Girls  hurried  along  from 
their  day  of  protracted  toil,  looking  pale  and  meagre  ; 
elderly  matrons,  with  dark,  short  gowns,  close  hoods 
and  stout  shoes,  locked  their  arms  under  their  bosoms 
and  moved  on  slowly  —  they  could  not  afford  the  price 
of  an  umbrella,  because  their  families  needed  all. 
What  matter  ?  they  had  survived  youth,  and  beauty, 

and  hope,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain,  more  or  less,  was 

10* 


194:  THE    NEWSBOY, 

of  little  moment ;  and  so  they  moved  on,  at  a  funeral 
pace,  for  to  them  life  had  become  one  vast  procession 
to  the  grave. 

Policemen  ensconced  themselves  under  awnings 
and  stoops,  now  and  then  coming  out  all  of  a  breeze 
when  the  occasion  for  them  had  gone  by.  Beggars 
groped  here  and  there,  and  sturdy  loafers,  with  hands 
in  their  pockets,  stubbed  along  defiantly.  Bob  saw 
nothing  of  all  this.  Little  girls,  with  long  thin  arms 
and  legs,  and  old  shawls  tied  over  their  high  shoul 
ders,  darted  here  and  there,  begging  "  a  penny,"  and 
Bob  did  not  give  them  a  look  of  scorn  and  his  bluff 
"  go  to  work,"  as  he  had  done  a  thousand  times  be 
fore. 

That  great  rain,  coming  away  from  the  pure 
waters  of  the  North,  over  beautiful  rivers  and  fair 
fields,  sought  in  vain  its  office  of  beauty  in  the  great, 
evil  city ;  it  failed  now,  as  it  had  done  often  before, 
even  although  Bob  walked  in  the  midst  adding  to  its 
fall  the  flow  of  his  own  tears.  It  seemed  even  bent 
upon  singling  him  out  from  among  all  others  upon 
whom  to  pelt,  and  drive  and  drench,  till  he  was  all 
rain  from  head  to  foot.  His  ragged  cap  lopped  over 
his  ears,  letting  down  the  water  in  perfect  rills.  His 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    THE    EAIN.      195 

old  jacket  received  the  rain  upon  one  side  and  let  it 
out  of  the  other ;  his  shoes  seemed  to  be  in  an  ecstasy 
of  pleasure,  that  inside  and  outside  were  no  longer 
disputed  territory.  Bob  felt  none  of  this.  He 
went  on,  holding  no  relation  with  all  that  passed 
around  him,  a  poor  little  skin-of-a-boy,  to  whom  life 
was  one  great,  blind  mystery,  as  it  is  to  us  all,  and  on 
whom  the  elements  were  bent  upon  doing  all  the 
harm  they  could — it  might  not  be  that  it  was  harm, 
but  only  nature  giving  out  her  great  sobs  and  tears  in 
pity  for  her  child. 

We  bless  God  for  the  sunshine,  never  for  the 
storm,  and  yet  the  great  wind  and  the  rushing  rain 
are  needful  to  our  moods.  The  stormy  passions  of  to 
day  rejoice  in  the  tempest.  Lear  must  have  rushed 
out  into  the  storm  or  his  poor  head  would  have  burst 
just  as  it  became  crazed.  The  dim,  sorrowful  past 
needs  the  storm  for  reminiscence'  sake.  Our  bye- 
gones  are  always  best  revived  when  the  rain  is  com 
ing  down ;  our  great  trials,  our  Gethsemanes,  as  it 
were,  have  assumed  angelic  shapes ;  our  lesser  griefs 
are  tender  cherubs,  which  we  now  fondle  lovingly, 
and  our  few  joys  grow  radiantly  beautiful  to  our  eyes, 
become  the  Jura  heights  which  first  crown  them- 


196  THE    NEWSBOY 

selves  with  the  morning,  and  resign  the  halo  latest  in 
the  gloaming.  If  strong  and  wise  we  fix  our  eyes 
upon  these  till  the  whole  valley  of  the  past  grows  into 
sunshine — we  see  how  the  dark  days  are  few,  com 
pared  with  the  many  out  of  which  a  genial  spirit  can 
always  furnish  forth  a  softened  light,  for  we  learn 
that  "  the  dark  spot  upon  our  sunshine  is  the  shadow 
of  ourselves." 

The  boy  went  on  till  he  neared  the  head  of  Canal 
street,  where  the  street  was  being  repaired,  and  build 
ings  going  up.  Here  were  great  stacks  of  bricks 
ready  to  topple  upon  the  heads  of  people  beneath, 
piles  of  loose  lumber,  which  the  wind  now  raised  and 
now  let  fall  with  a  continuous  clatter.  As  he  passed 
this  material  for  building  his  hand  was  grasped  forci 
bly. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  stop,"  cried  a  feeble  voice. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mollie  ?"  said  Bob,  very  faintly  also. 

"  I  'm  dying,  Bob — I  feel  it ;  dying  of  the  sin,  and 
shame,  and  hunger." 

"  You  must  n't  lie  side  o'  Minnie,"  answered  the 
boy,  in  a  sort  of  dizzy,  bewildered  manner. 

A  cry,  terrible  in  the  midst  of  that  storm  of  dark 
ness  and  rain,  burst  from  the  lips  of  Mollie,  as  if  to 


THE   BAPTISM   OF   THE    EAIN.      197 

show  how  the  soul  can  give  force  to  the  body,  even 
when  death  has  put  his  checks  all  along  the  track  of 
the  veins,  and  has  clogged  the  glib  working  of  the 
heart  by  thick,  buffy  particles,  that  stay  the  motion 
of  its  wheels. 

"  Don't  scream,  Mollie,  'cause  why  ? — the  Stars  '11 
be  a-comin',"  answered  the  boy,  now  partially  aroused 
from  his  lethargy.  "  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  tell  us 
now,  Mollie,"  he  continued,  with  real  pity,  for  the 
great  heart  would  do  its  office. 

The  girl  sobbed  and  moaned,  but  made  no  reply, 
and  Bob  who  had  relapsed  again  into  his  own  grief, 
was  silent  also. 

At  length  the  girl  began  to  talk  incoherently. 
"She  gave  me  the  new  ribbon,  but  she  said,  'Oh, 
Mollie,  Mollie,  you  love  your  ease,  and  that  in  the 
poor  will  lead  to  ruin — you  love  finery,  and  that  will 
lead  to  shame ;'  and  here  I  am,  dying  here  in  the 
rain — dying,  dying.  Hark !  how  the  great  bells  toll, 
toll,  as  they  will  never  toll  for  me — toll,  toll.  'Tis 
almost  midnight — midnight.  They  buried  her  in  the 
little  churchyard,  and  the  bells  tolled,  and  the  prayers 
were  said,  and  now  I  remember  they  cast  sharp  looks 


198  THE   NEWSBOY. 

at  me,  and  said,  '  The  Lord  took  her  from  the  evil  to 


come.'" 


"  And  did  you  know  about  the  Lord,  and  prayin', 
and  be  what  you  are  ?"  asked  Bob. 

The  girl  made  no  reply,  but  her  head  fell  upon  the 
shoulder  of  Bob,  and  the  two  sat  in  the  darkness, 
and  the  shutters  clattered,  and  the  people  went  by, 
but  none  saw  them,  only  the  rain  singled  them  out  as 
if  it  would  baptize  them  with  healing  waters. 

"I  am  almost  gone,"  at  length  continued  poor 
Mollie.  "  The  people  beat  me  and  turned  me  out  of 
doors,  because  I  am  dying,  and  they  would  not  bury 
me.  But,  oh  Bob,  if  I  could  go  home — if  I  could  go 
home !"  and  now  the  tears  came  to  her  relief. 

"  I  Ve  carried  Minnie  home,  Mollie,  but  you 
must  n't  go  there." 

"  No,  no,  back  to  where  the  sun  shone  along  the 
orchard  trees,  and  the  little  brook  smiled  all  the  day 
through ;  and  the  wild  rose  grew  along  the  fence,  and 
the  buttercups  and  daisies  laughed  in  the  sun,  and  the 
birds  were  never  weary  with  their  songs — back  to  my 
mother's  knee,  my  mother's  prayer." 

Bob  had  felt  the  need  of  all  these  appliances,  had 
felt  the  need  of  such  memories,  and  now  he  longed  to 


THE   BAPTISM    OF  THE    RAIN.      199 

hear  more,  and  said,  "  Go  on,  Mollie,  it  '11  do  yon 
good ;  'cause  why  ? — it  may  be  we  '11  work  together, 
and  you  '11  be  a  blessin'  to  me  and  Dady,  and  Rack-o'- 
bones." 

"I  dreamed  last  night,  Bob,  such  a  dream,  and 
now  I  think  of  it,  it  was  a  vision.  Oh,  can  I  take 
heart  from  it — can  I  trust  in  the  Lord  ?" 

"That's  it,"  answered  Bob  quickly;  "I  feel  it,  I 
feel  there  's  a  somethin'  to  be  trusted  to,  and  Rack-o'- 
bones  will  help  us." 

The  girl  did  not  heed  him,  but  went  on :  "I  was 
dead — yes,  dead,  as  I  shall  be  when  the  sun  comes 
up — and  I  joined  a  great  crowd  of  people  who  were 
all  hurrying  one  way.  I  saw  before  me  a  lovely 
country,  and  in  the  midst  a  marble  throne,  upon 
which  sat  Jesus,  the  Friend  of  sinners.  I  saw  beauti 
ful  women  and  great  men  approach  the  throne — I  saw 
the  judge  look  at  them  sternly,  and  send  them  away : 
1  Unprofitable  servants,  evil  stewards,'  I  heard  him 
say ;  and  these  went  away  with  bitter  anguish  in  their 
hearts.  At  length  the  crowd  pushed  me  forward,  and 
I  found  myself  before  the  throne.  I  dared  not  look 
up,  but  I  trembled,  and  in  my  heart  seemed  to  say, 
1  Be  pitiful,  for  my  sins  are  great.'  And  he  lifted  me 


200  THE   NEWSBOY. 


Jhje  whispered,  'Poor  lamb,  pierced  by  a  thou 
sand  wounds  —  poor  lamb  —  be  pitiful  —  poor  lamb.'  " 

"  Broken-back  and  Mollie  's  both.  gone7"  at  length 
Bob  uttered,  as  he  laid  the  head  of  the  poor  girl  upon 
the  boards,  where  the  pitiless  rain  fell  upon  it,  and  the 
street-lamp  peered  in  to  see  how  pale  and  haggard  it 
was. 

The  sun  was  just  struggling  through  the  mist  as 
Bob  re-entered  his  railway-car  dwelling.  And  at  the 
same  time  the  sun  discovered  poor  Mollie.  Some 
charitable  people  called  the  proper  officers,  and  in  the 
daily  papers  it  was  said,  "A  miserable  girl,  long 
known  as  an  abandoned  character,  was  this  morning 
found  dead  near  Canal  street.  Her  body  was  taken 
to  Potter's  Field." 

The  mountain  rill  springing  amid  the  pure  vapors 
of  heaven,  may  pour  itself  through  dusty  by-ways, 
over  sterile  plains,  turbid  and  restless;  through  the 
great  city  —  onward,  till  its  waters  are  again  rendered 
pure  in  the  "  multitudinous  seas,"  and  thus  it  may  be 
with  life.  Poor  Mollie  had  her  vision. 


XXX. 

§0b  gis 


"KACK-o'  -BONES,"  said  Bob,  as  lie  sat  down  on  the 
little  bench,  and  stooped  over  Dady,  who  lay  sleeping, 
"  Eack-o'-bones,  I  'm  a  thinkin'  Minnie  's  best  off. 
'Cause  why  ?  she  does  n't  ache  any  more  ;"  and  poor 
Bob  shook  from  head  to  foot.  "  I  aint  afeared, 
mother,  not  a  mite  afeared  ;  but  my  teeth  keep  up 
such  a  clicket-te-clack,  that  it  seems  as  though  I's 
afeard  o'  somethin'." 

"  You  are  sick,  my  poor  boy  ;  you  are  very  sick  ;" 
and  the  woman  lifted  up  Bob's  cap,  and  in  doing  so 
let  fall  a  shower  of  rain  from  his  matted  hair.  She 
drew  her  fingers  through  it,  and  with  her  apron 
wiped  his  face  tenderly.  Bob  never  in  his  life  had 
encountered  anything  like  this;  never  had  he  been 
thus  addressed,  and  he  burst  out  into  uncontrollable 
sobs. 


202  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"  Gorry,  gorry — it  '11  break  my  heart.  I  can't  bear 
it,  Kack-o'-bones.  It  piles  up  the  agony  jest  as 
though  I 's  in  a  theatre.  Give  me  a  kick  and  a 
punch,  but  don't  speak  tender-like." 

The  woman  had  seated  herself  and  taken  Bob's 
head  in  her  lap,  and  she  combed  his  hair  with  her 
thin  ringers,  and  patted  his  shoulders  softly,  croning 
an  old  pious  hymn  all  the  time,  as  if  the  memory  of 
other  days  was  pulling  at  her  heart ;  and  so  Bob  slept 
with  a  vague  sense  of  peace  and  comfort,  half  listen 
ing  to  the  words  that  made  him  think  of  a  chorus  he 
might  have  heard  at  the  theatre : 

"  I  'm  bound  for  the  kingdom, 
"Will  you  go  to  glory  with  me  ? 
Hallelujah,  praise  ye  the  Lord." 

I  have  heard  the  story  of  a  poor  servant  girl, 
loved  and  trusted  in  the  family  in  which  she  lived, 
who  lost  her  best  self  in  love  of  a  youth  belonging  to 
the  household,  and  who  became  a  mother  and  no 
wife.  She  dared  not  confess  her  fault,  but  kept  the 
child  in  an  old  lofb  for  three  years.  She  never  spoke, 
nor  smiled,  in  its  presence,  lest  the  child  should  learn 
the  trick  and  betray  her.  For  three  years  the  little 
creature  bore  this  mute  existence,  till  one  day  Nature 


BOB    DISCUSSES    MORAL    POINTS.      203 

asserted  herself,  and  the  child  gave  an  audible  laugh 
at  the  sight  of  its  mother  at  her  toil,  as  he  peeped 
through  a  crevice  of  his  prison.  Search  was  made, 
and  her  secret  discovered. 

So  it  was  with  little  Dady.  Unused  to  the  many 
attentions  commonly  bestowed  upon  children,  she 
learned  to  take  care  of  herself,  to  tottle  about  quite  in 
a  way  of  her  own.  She  never  cried — was  never  ob 
trusive  or  troublesome.  As  Minnie  had  found  herself 
less  able  to  move  about,  she  had  taught  Dady  to 
fetch  and  carry  articles,  and  had  taught  her  also  many 
pretty  ways  of  washing  her  face,  and  combing  her 
long  golden  hair.  Dady  gave  promise  of  great  per 
sonal  attractions,  a  fact  that  seemed  rather  to  annoy 
than  please  Bob,  who  regarded  her  affluent  beauty  as 
a  sort  of  defrauding  of  little  Broken-back. 

"  She  is  n't  half  so  handsome  as  you  are  ;  not  half 
so  handsome,  Minnie,"  he  would  say  ;  "  'cause  why  ?  I 
looked  at  all  the  picters  in  the  Art  Union  rooms,  and 
none  of  'em  looked  like  you  but  a  nun — they  said  it 
was  a  nun — who  had  on  a  white  gown,  and  her  eyes 
lifted  up,  like  yours  is  now,  Minnie." 

And  so  it  was ;  Minnie  was  content,  and  Bob  also, 
for  he  saw  the  soul  of  the  child,  speaking  from  her 


204  THE    NEWSBOY. 

pure  body,  just  as  the  soul  of  the  water  is  expressed 
in  the  lily. 

It  was  twilight  when  Bob  awoke,  just  as  Dady 
crawled  to  his  side  and  put  a  soft  arm  over  his  neck, 
for  the  little  creature  nestled  away  at  nightfall,  hun 
gry  but  uncomplaining,  like  a  young  lamb. 

Bob  opened  his  eyes  and  called  for  Eack-o' -bones. 
"  Mother" — but  the  car  was  silent  and  deserted. 

"Now  I'll  bet  Eack-o'-bones  is  gone  off.  She's 
doubled  all  up  in  a  heap  down  there  at  the  corner  o' 
Chambers,  lookin'  more  like  a  machine  than  a  human 
critter.  She  '11  never  come  back,  never — 'cause  why  ? 
she  thinks  I  '11  want  her  beggin's,  but  I  '11  see  her  be- 
gorried  fust.1' 

What  was  the  infliction  thus  hinted  at,  we  do  not 
know,  but  the  woman  entered,  while  he  was  yet 
speaking,  with  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  candle,  and  a  small 
pail  containing  milk.  She  had  an  alert  smile,  a  cheer 
ful,  good,  motherly  air,  totally  unlike  anything  she 
had  before  exhibited.  Bob  watched  her  motions  in 
silence.  She  boiled  a  wee  bit  of  a  kettle,  and  made 
some  tea.  She  put  a  portion  of  the  milk  into  the 
yellow  bowl,  and  took  Dady  into  her  lap  and  fed  her 
with  bread  and  milk,  while  the  child  lifted  her  eyes 


BOB   DISCUSSES   MOEAL    POINTS.      205 

up  to  the  old  woman's  face,  at  each  spoonful,  with  a 
wondering  kind  of  joy.  Then  she  brushed  and 
washed  Dady,  and  folded  her  little  hands  and  taught 
her  to  say,  "  Our  Father,  bless  a  little  child,"  and  laid 
her  down  upon  the  straw. 

Dady  went  through  all  like  a  little  automaton,  her 
large  eyes  peering  amid  her  curls,  as  if  ready  to  learn, 
and  to  be  whatever  a  plastic  hand  might  make  her. 
But  as  for  Bob,  he  could  only  exclaim, 

"  Oh  gorry,  gorry,  is  n't  that  like  a  Nun  ?  Isn't 
kingdom-come  here,  now  ?  Don't  that  make  the  old 
car  segatiate  ?  Pious,  by  gorry  !" 

Dady  was  asleep,  and  now  the  woman  removed 
Minnie's  rose-tree  from  a  chair  without  a  back,  and 
spreading  a  towel,  which  she  took  from  her  pocket, 
across  it,  she  placed  thereon  the  homely  supper,  and 
called  upon  Bob  to  join  her. 

"  Eat  away,  mother ;  I  can't  go  it.  It 's  o'  no  use ; 
I  could  n't  swallow  that  are  sops  and  bread." 

The  woman  looked  disappointed,  and  in  a  mother 
ly  way  remonstrated:  '"Twas  the  best  I  could  get, 
my  son." 

"  The  best  1  Now  shut  up — do  you  think  I  'm  in- 
feriorizing  the  things  you  've  got  there  ?  By  no  man- 


206  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ner  o'  means.  They 's  too  good,  too  good,  considerin' 
the  way  they  was  got." 

"  They  were  honestly  procured,  Bob ;  now  the 
Lord  forbid  that  I  should  steal." 

"  Now,  the  Lord  forbid  that  you  should  beg,"  re 
turned  the  boy,  scornfully.  "  Granny,  beggin'  's  a 
sight  worse  than  stealin',  it  is.  'Cause  why  ?  steal- 
in'  's  above  board,  and  honest-like.  When  I  steals,  I 
says,  you  've  got  more  'n  your  share,  and  I  '11  have 
some.  When  I  begs,  I  does  the  same  game  sneakin'- 
like.  I  gives  nothin',  not  my  breath,  nor  my  strength, 
nor  the  chink,  n'ither  in  one  case  nor  t'other.  Both 's 
alike,  only  beggin'  's  the  meanest.  Tell  me  you  stole 
them  fixin's,  and  I  '11  eat  'em.  If  you  begged  'em,  I 
can't." 

"  Thou  shalt  not  steal,  was  one  of  the  laws  pro 
claimed  from  the  top  of  Sinai,  Bob,  and  it  is  very 
sinful." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  n'ither.  I  don't  know  what 
top  'twas  proclaimed  from,  but  /know  that  thou  shalt 
not  steal 's  jest  the  same  as  thou  shalt  not  beg.  'Cause 
why  ?  both  is  gettin'  what  aint  ourn,  and  givin'  noth- 
in'  for  what  we  get.  You  've  disgraced  the  family, 
mother." 


BOB   DISCUSSES   MORAL   POINTS.     207 

How  much  longer  Bob  might  have  dilated  on  his 
moral  code  is  uncertain,  had  not  the  two  been  roused 
by  a  quick,  light  knock  at  the  door,  which  being  close 
to  the  hand  of  Bob,  was  as  instantly  opened.  The 
suddenness  of  this  movement  seemed  to  astonish  the 
applicant,  for  the  light  revealed  what  to  poor  Bob 
was  an  apparition  of  perfect  beauty. 

-  Years  had  passed  away  since  that  little  hand  had 
been  placed  upon  his  arm  at  Grace  Church,  and  again 
in  front  of  Stewart's.  The  child  had  grown  much, 
yet  her  sweet  face  had  often  looked  in  upon  his 
mind's  eye,  while  he  ministered  to  the  hunch-back 
child.  Bob  had  got  to  associating  her,  he  couldn't 
tell  how,  with  the  tall  dark  gentleman  of  whom  we 
have  spoken,  and  whenever  he  saw  the  latter  the  hand 
of  Imogen  pressed  upon  his  arm,  as  if  it  would  say, 
"protect  me." 

Ah  !  Bob  had  need  of  the  little  hand  of  Minnie  on 
his  heart,  for  the  hand  upon  the  arm  seemed  ready  to 
claim  its  office. 

Imogen  was  now  a  girl  of  perhaps  a  dozen  sum 
mers.  Her  flowing  hair  (it  was  the  same  little  head 
Bob  had  seen  at  the  window)  was  wreathed  with 
flowers,  and  she  looked  a  fair  young  May  Queen. 


208  THE   NEWSBOY. 

All  at  once  it  flashed  upon  Bob's  mind  that  she  lived 
in  the  great  stone  house,  the  other  side  of  the  way, 
and  other  painful  thoughts  rushed  in  also. 

"What  a  revelation  was  this  child,  Imogen,  to  the 
senses  of  the  Newsboy,  as  she  stood  in  her  short  frock, 
beneath  which  were  seen  peeping  tips  of  embroidery, 
barely  covering  her  knees,  while  the  silk  stocking 
left  the  pretty  round  leg  all  exposed  down  to  a  small 
slipper  of  pink  kid,  laced  over  the  instep.  Her  em 
barrassment  was  but  momentary,  and  she  lightly 
entered  the  room,  glancing  about  in  all  directions, 
with  a  sweet,  girlish  delight.  Approaching  Bob,  once 
more  he  felt  that  remembered  touch  upon  his  arm. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  did  n't  think  I  should  ever  see 
you  again,"  she  said. 

Bob,  by  this  time,  had  become  self-possessed,  and 
now  assumed  a  certain  air  of  dignity,  that  arose  in 
part  from  the  moral  problem  he  had  but  just  solved, 
and  in  part  from  the  consciousness  of  being  the  chief 
stay  and  support  of  a  family. 

"It  waii't  nat'ral  to  expect  we  should  meet,  but  Fs 
glad,  very  glad,"  answered  Bob. 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  beats  _the  Jirabian  Nights," 
said  little  Miss,  in  such  silvery  tones  as  seemed  to 


BOB    DISCUSSES    MORAL    POINTS.     209 

please  the  air  that  floated  them.  "This  is  lovely. 
Tn7;T£s  such  a  darling  place.  A  baby,  too.  What  a 
love  "of  "a  baby !  Papa  will  never  believe  it — never. 
Please  take  my  kitten  ;  it 's  a  real  Maltese.  There  's 
the  kettle,  too  !  How  nice  !  Don't  you  want  some 
prettier  chairs  ?  You  shall  have  them.  I  '11  tell  papa 
all  about  it.  "Would  n't  it  be  nice  ?" 

Bob,  nor  the  child  herself,  did  n't  seem  to  compre 
hend  what  would  be  nice ;  but  there  was  a  tacit  under 
standing  between  them,  for  the  girl  approached  him 
again  and  said,  "  Would  n't  it  be  nice  ?" 

"I'm  bound  to  b'lieve  'twould  be  nice,  very 
nice,"  answered  the  boy,  coloring  to  the  eyes  and 
smiling;  "but  'tis  n't  nat'ral,  and  so  we  won't  think 
on  it.  We 's  poorr  we  is ;  'cause  why  ?  the  Lord 
seems  to  've  forgot  about  us ;  but  he  '11  remember,  he 
will.  'Cause  why?  I  'm  makin'  a  place  in  the  world, 
so  he  '11  see  me ;"  and  Bob  felt  a  conscious  pride,  quite 
beyond  anything  about  him  to  justify  the  emotion. 
But  our  destiny  is  not  measured  by  outward  promise, 
but  by  that  internal  consciousness  that  sends  forth  de 
sires  commensurate  thereto,  be  they  great  or  little. 
Bob  had  a  great  heart,  and  he  felt  the  promise  of  the 
future. 


210  THE    NEWSBOY. 

The  little  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of  utter 
astonishment,  and  then  darted  out  into  the  night, 
leaving  a  trail  of  light  in  her  pathway,  just  as  the 
comet,  looking  to  the  sun,  leaves  golden  threads  be 
hind  him. 

"  I  does  n't  understand  it,"  said  Bob,  when  she 
was  gone,  "but  I  suppose  it  is  0  K.  Mother,  you 
don't  think  anything  in  the  world  would  harm  a  thing 
like  that,  more  like  an  angel  than  a  human  critter? 
Minnie  would  a  looked  like  that  all  but  the  hunger 
and  the  sickness." 

The  old  woman  did  not  reply,  but  kept  trotting 
upon  the  floor,  while  something  like  a  groan  escaped 
her. 


toiuur 
0! 


THE  little  household  was  silent  for  awhile,  and 
then  Kack-o'-bones  and  Bob  renewed  the  conver 
sation  which  had  been  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Imogen. 

"And  so  it's  who  made  me,  that  you  want  to 
know,"  said  Bob.  "Well,  that's  nat'ral-like,  seein' 
it's  a  question  that  I've  ask'd  a  thousand  times  myself. 
Eack-o'  -bones,  when  I  look  along  the  street,  and  see 
such  a  mighty  heap  o'  people,  all  goin'  on  like  mad  ; 
all  with  two  eyes,  and  one  nose,  and  one  mouth,  and 
a  pair  o'  hands,  thumpers  ;  and  a  pair  o'  pegs,  stump 
ers  ;  and  all  lookin'  as  if  they  was  n't  no  relation,  I 
feel  as  if  there  's  somethin'  to  learn,  somethin'  to  tell 
the  meanin'  of  it  all.  Then  it  's  nat'ral  that  I  should 
look  up  into  the  stars,  and  there  't  is  all  the  same  —  all 


212  THE   NEWSBOY. 

still,  silent-like,  and  my  heart  beats  harder  and 
harder;  and  then  I've  laid  away  under  a  crate,  or 
down  an  arey,  and  cried  all  night,  till  in  the  mornin' 
I  had  n't  any  voice  to  cry  my  papers." 

Bob  all  this  time  sat  forward  on  the  little  bench, 
looking  into  the  woman's  face,  his  two  hands  grasp 
ing  his  two  knees,  and  the  blood  going  and  coming 
over  his  thin  cheek,  as  if  the  pulsations  of  his  great 
heart  kept  its  tally  there.  After  a  momentary  silence, 
he  went  on. 

"  One  day  I  saw  a^ jnan,, .,what .  had  a  white  hand- 
kercher  round  his  neck,  and  I  stopped  him  and  asked 
I  him  to  tell  me  who  made  me.  '  God,  my  son,'  he 
answered  mild-like.  '  And  who  made  you  ?'  I  asked. 
'  God,  my  son,'  lie  said,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  lookin' 
as  though  he  ached.  Now,  this  wasn't  no  answer. 
He  gin  me  a  word,  and  I  wasn't  no  wiser  for  it.  And 
/did  n't  believe  we  was  both  made  by  the  same  bein' ; 
'cause  why  ?  in  that  case,  he  would  n't  have  the  ugly 
goin's  on  that  I  see  every  day.  If  he  made  'em  all — 
the  same  one — why,  they  'd  have  a  feller  feelin'-like 
for  one  another,  and  we  should  n't  have  the  fightin's, 
and  killin's,  and  hanging,  and  cruelties,  and  hunger- 


BOB   PHILOSOPHISES.  213 

in's,  am?  sufferings.  _  No,  no,  Kack-o'-bones ;  this  don't 
stand  to  reason,  no  way  we  can  fix  it. 

"I  aren't  accomplished — nowise  accomplished. 
'Cause  why  ?  I  does  n't  drink,  nor  chaw,  nor  smoke — 
they  all  goes  agin  my  natur ;  n'ither  can  I  read,  but 
seein'  that  are  isn't  my  callin',  I  doesn't  mind  it. 
But  there 's  some  things  that  I  can  tell,  layin'  aside 
accomplishments." 

Here  Bob  arose,  and  took  the  Maltese  kitten  from 
the  woman's  lap,  where  she  had  held  it  ever  since  the 
little  girl  had  put  it  into  her  arms. 

"  Now,  Kack-o'-bones,  suppose  we 's  all  made  by 
the  same  bein' — why  then  he  keeps  a  fancy  stock  to 
make  some  out  of.  'Cause  why  ?  you  and  me 's 
made  out  o'  coarser  stuff  than  it  took  to  make  pretty 
Silver-tongue,  what  brought  that  kitten  here." 

Here  there  was  a  great  knock  at  the  door,  and 
then  it  was  thrust  suddenly  open  by  a  crowd  of 
people. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?"  cried  a  loud  voice — 
"we've  stumbled  upon  a  den  of  thieves ;"  and  the 
man  attempted  to  force  his  way,  but  was  prevented 
by  Bob,  whose  little,  thin  body  nearly  filled  up  the 
aperture.  The  boy's  face  did  not  lose  its  native  ex- 


214  THE    NEWSBOY. 

pression  of  quiet  force,  and  he  said  firmly,  grasping 
both  sides  of  the  door — 

''You'll  find  no  thieves  inside  o'  this  house.  If 
them 's  the  kind  o'  folks  your  arter.  you  won't  find 
them  here." 

Here  a  stout  boy  peeped  over  the  man's  shoul 
der — 

"  Let  alone — clear  out,  I  say,  it's  Bob.  Bless  your 
soul,  Bob  wouldn't  rob  a  pigeon,  letting  alone  any 
body  else." 

By  that  time  the  man  drew  back,  and  persons,  one 
after  another,  poked  their  heads  in.  Some  laughed, 
some  brought  out  a  long  whistle,  and  some  amused 
themselves  by  drumming  upon  the  top  of  the  car. 
At  length  they,  one  by  one,  disappeared,  and  left  the 
little  family  to  themselves. 

For  awhile  they  were  silent ;  the  woman  sat  trot 
ting  one  foot  uneasily  upon  the  floor,  and  then  began 
to  crone,  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Hark  I  from  the  tombs  a  mournful  sound, 
Mine  ears  attend  the  cry." 

She  was  interrupted  by  Bob. 

"  To  my  thinkin',  that's  a  mighty  doleful  tune  of 
yourn,  Eack-o'-bones." 


BOB    PHILOSOPHISES.  215 

"  So  it  is,  Bob;  but  I've  been  thinking.  I  wish 
I  was  in  -my  grave,  so  I  should  never  think  any 
more." 

"  To  speak  my  mind  plainly,"  said  Bob,  "  I  don't 
see  what  should  stop  your  thinkin'  anywhere.  'Cause 
why  ?  we  thinks  when  we  'se  asleep ;  and  to  my  mind, 
sleep  ain't  onlike  death.  I  've  made  up  my  mind  that 
when  we  begins  to  think  we  Ve  got  to  think,  and  no 
stoppin'  of  it.  Dady  there 's  a  thinkin'  in  her  sleep  ; 
and  poor  little  Broken-back 's  a  thinkin'  somewhere — 
didn't  she  hear  callin's,  and  didn't  she  see  lights, 
when  no  thin'  was  to  be  seen  by  my  eyes  ?  and  don't 
I  see  her,  and  hear  her,  and  love  her,  just  the  same  ?" 

And  Bob's  voice  became  choked  by  the  sobs. 

"  No,  Kack-o'-bones,  we  has  n't  any  choice  ;  we 's 
got  to  think,  and  never  stop.  Now  we 's  in  the  world, 
howsomever  we  got  here,  it  does  n't  stand  to  reason 
that  we 's  only  put  here  to  eat  like  the  animals  does 
— sleep  like  the  animals  does — and  suffer  more  'n  the 
animals  does ;  and  then  sleep  so  sound,  we  does  n't 
wake ;  'cause  why  ?  we  thinks  about  greater  things — 
all  the  times  we  thinks  about  greater  things — and, 
Rack-o'-bones,  we  must  awake  somewhere  ;  we  must — • 
I  feel  we  must — I  knows  we  must ;  and  I  wants  to 


216  THE    NEWSBOY. 

die,  so  to  try  it.  Dying  is  n't  nothing I  'm  sure  on  it ; 
'cause  why  ?  them  stars  up  there  tells  us  there 's  more 
light  than  we 's  got ;  and  we  aint  to  be  shut  up  in  an 
oven,  as  it  might  be,  and  never  let  out,  when  we 
wants  to  get  out.  When  we  wants  a  thing,  we  has 
it." 

Bob  had  arisen  to  his  feet.  His  form  seemed  to 
swell  and  enlarge  under  the  great  thoughts  that  filled 
him ;  and  as  he  gave  his  untutored  theory — nature 
only  speaking  in  and  through  him- — his  voice  as 
sumed  a  beauty  of  tone,  at  once  touching  and  elo 
quent.  His  eyes,  kindled  from  within,  had  a  holy 
look ;  and  his  deepening  color  made  Bob  for  the  mo 
ment  so  handsome,  that  you  forgot  his  naked  feet — 
his  thin,  nearly  naked  figure,  which  his  garments, 
worn  and  tattered  as  they  were,  could  not  vulgarize. 
The  great  heart  of  the  boy  made  him  noble  in  aspect, 
and  eloquent  of  tongue,  despite  the  solecisms  of  lan 
guage. 

When  he  closed,  he  seated  himself  again  ;  and  in 
playing  with  the  kitten,  unconscious  that  he  did  so, 
his  fingers  encountered  a  little  silver  collar  upon  its 
neck,  upon  which  he  saw  at  once  that  characters  were 
engraved. 


BOB    PHILOSOPHISES.  217 

"  You're  accomplished  now,  Eack-o'-bones ;  tell  us 
what  it  says." 

"  Imogen,"  the  woman  read. 

"Imogen,"  repeated  Bob  ;  "  Eack-o'-bones,  when  I 
thinks  how  many  things  little  Minnie  could  have 
loved,  how  very  happy  she  might  a'  bin,  and  was  n't," 
here  Bob  gave  a  great  hem  to  swallow  down  a 
lump  in  his  throat,  and  he  put  his  hand  over  his 
heart,  for  he  felt  dear  Minnie's  there.  "  I  feel  as 
if  she  ought  n't  to  have  been  put  in  this  ere  world, 
'twas  cruel  and  wicked  in  somebody.  I  feels, 
Eack-o'-bones,  I  feels  as  if  I  wished  I  could  come 
down  upon  the  people  that  did  the  wrong,  like 
a  hundred  thousand  bricks,  for  doin'  it.  Somebody 
driv  Minnie's  mother  into  the  sea,  and  Molly  into  the 
grave,  and  who  did  it  ort  to  be  dam'd,  and  will  be 
dam'd.  I  does  n't  jist  know  what  that  means,  but  it 
means  something  orful,  and  it  will  come  upon  'em.  I 
sees  men  wearin'  their  gold  and  their  nice  fixin's,  and 
I  sees  a  critter  like  a  little  worm,  gnawin'  and  gnaw- 
in'  at  their  hearts,  and  I  sees  the  pain  in  their  eyes, 
and  I  knows  that  they  never  can  sleep  softly,  as  Bob 
sleeps,  a  fcelin'  Minnie's  hand  on  his  heart." 

Bob  had  stood  on  his  feet  as  he  warmed  in  his  dis- 
10 


218  THE    NEWSBOY. 

course,  his  arm  thrown  out  and  his  head  raised,  but 
the  thought  of  Minnie  brought  a  gush  of  tears  to  his 
eyes,  and  he  sank  down  with  his  hands  over  his  face. 

We  say  that  the  ancient  prophets  and  patriarchs 
received  heavenly  revelations ;  but  think  you  there 
was  no  revelation  to  this  untutored  child,  who  cast 
aside  right  and  left,  whatever  impeded  the  voice  utter 
ing  "  do  right,  do  right,"  and  who  opened  his  great 
heart  free  to  the  free  heavens,  allowing  all  its  hid 
den  chambers  to  be  winnowed  clearly,  that  the  new 
law  of  u  perfect  love"  might  find  a  fitting  lodgment 
there? 

Bob  stroked  the  back  of  the  kitten  purring  upon 
his  knee,  and  went  on. 

"  Once,  Kack-o'-bones,  Minnie  found  a  kitten  that 
had  been  dropped  here  in  the  lot,  and  'twas,  I'm 
bound  to  say,  a  sort  of  comfort  to  us  all.  We  gin  it 
all  we  could  get,  but  it  wouldn't  grow,  no  how. 
'Cause  why?  we  couldn't  buy  the  milk  and  the 
meat ;  its  nater  called  for  'em,  and  we  could  n't  buy 
'em ;  so  I  says  to  Minnie,  everything  ort  to  be  kept 
according  to  its  nater,  its  cruel-like  to  keep  the  poor 
critter  a  youlin'  for  food  sich  as  its  nater  calls  for,  and 
we  not  able  to  get  it ;  so  Minnie  and  I  went  out  to- 


BOB    PHILOSOPHISES.  219 

getlier  and  we  put  it  down  an  arey,  and  Minnie  did  n't 
cry,  but  she  held  my  hand  tight-like,  and  then  when 
we  stopped  under  the  window  and  heard  'em  sing 
something  like 

"  You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

Mother  dear," 

then  't  was  nat'ral  that  Minnie  should  burst  out  a- cry- 
in',  and  I  should  stoop  down  and  let  her  poor,  clear 
head  be  where  she  could  know  Bob's  heart  was  all 
right/' 

For  a  few  minutes  Bob  was  silent ;  and  then  he 
started  up  suddenly  at  hearing  "  Imogen"  called  in  a 
low,  mournful  tone,  and  he  rushed  out  of  the  car,  ex 
claiming, 

"  Silver-tongue  is  lost  I — I  'm  sure  of  it." 


XXXII. 


YES,  Imogen  did  live  in  the  great  stone  house  be 
fore  mentioned,  just  as  Bob  had  supposed — a  little 
Paradise  within,  but  evil-haunted  without,  like  Eden 
environed  by  Satan  and  his  angels.  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
was  a  merchant,  and  we  all  know  there  is  a  something 
grand  and  princely  about  an  American,  and  especially 
a  New  York  Merchant.  He  was  too  thoroughly  well- 
bred  to  fear  encroachments  from  the  "  lower  classes," 
as  our  conceited  democrats  are  fond  of  calling  the 
hardy  working-men  and  women  of  the  country ;  and 
he  was  too  well  accustomed  to  wealth  and  culture,  he 
and  his  progenitors,  to  need  any  ostentatious  display 
of  them.  He  was"  a  merchant  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
term ;  his  ships  moved  amid  the  icebergs  of  the  north, 
worth  incalculable  gold,  and  the  spice  islands  of 


THE    AMERICAN   MERCHANT.       221 

the  tropics  filled  the  white  sails  of  his  richly-freighted 
barques  with  their  perfumed  airs. 

Our  merchants  are  the  best  missionaries  of  a  coun 
try.  The  hardy,  adventurous  mariner,  wherever  he 
goes,  leaves  the  impress  of  his  country  behind  him ; 
and  thank  God  there  is  a  wake  of  broad,  generous, 
manly,  and  Christian  principles  following  the  path 
way  of  an  American  ship.  The  nations  have  learned 
to  hail  the  flag  bearing  the  stars  and  stripes  with  an  en 
thusiasm  which  no  other  flag  can  challenge.  It  floats 
out  cheery  as  the  hearts  that  bear  it ;  freely  as  the  in 
stitutions  which  it  represents — nothing  less  than  the 
blue  baldrick  of  the  heavens,  and  the  everlasting  stars 
of  the  firmament  are  worthy  to  represent  that  new  out 
speaking  of  man's  onward  and  untrammelled  career ; 
and  the  nations  -  watch  its  progress  with  tears  and 
benedictions,  for  silently  the  stars  and  stripes  are 
working  out  the  redemption  of  man.  The  poor  sav 
age  hails  it  as  an  unknown  good,  and  hides  himself 
amid  its  folds;  the  patriot,  the  philanthropist,  the 
statesman  all  look  to  it  as  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  race, 
and  only  tyrants  tremble  at  its  coming. 

No  longer  does  the  genius  of  the  merchant  look  to 
the  sanction  of  government,  and  the  wealth  of  govern- 


222  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ment,  to  carry  out  its  noble  conceptions.  The  mer 
chant  of  to-day  is  happier  than  was  Columbus,  or 
Drake,  or  Yespucius,  or  Ealeigh,  or  Gilbert,  in  that  he 
waits  no  tardy  movements  of  jealous  and  rapacious 
princes  ;  for  he  holds  in  his  own  good  "  iron  safe  "  the 
wealth  of  a  principality.  Quietly  in  his  cool  count 
ing-room,  with  its  sofas,  and  stuffed  chairs,  and  car 
pets,  and  reverently  ornamented  with  a  bust  of  Web 
ster  and  Clay,  while  from  the  tall  desk  looks  down 
Shakspeare  and  Milton,  sits  the  American  merchant, 
and  plans  an  expedition  to  the  farthest  Ind,  or  the 
frozen  north,  to  the  Arctic  or  Antarctic,  the  one  with 
equal  ease  as  the  other.  He  hears  of  famine,  and  op 
pression,  and  suffering,  and  he  waits  no  tardy  move 
ments  of  government,  but  a  ship  is  freighted  with  the 
surplus  products  of  an  overflowing  soil,  and  away 
goes  the  American  ship,  wafted  by  the  benedictions 
of  thousands,  to  carry  bread  to  the  hungry.  Ireland, 
Madeira,  and  islands  of  lesser  note,  have  blessed  the 
coming  of  the  American  flag  with  shouts  of  joy,  while 
that  of  their  own  country  was  suffered  to  come  $nd 
go  in  silence. 

A  noble-minded  wife  of  a  sailor,  God  bless  her 
true,  hopeful,  wife-like,  woman  heart,  trembles  for  the 


THE    AMERICAN    MERCHANT.       223 

safety  of  her  husband,  long  entangled  amid  the  Polar 
Seas,  and  she  appeals  to  sympathetic  hearts,  and  the 
American  merchant  is  the  first  to  respond.  He 
turns  to  his  iron  safe,  and  takes  therefrom  wealth 
that  might  dazzle  a  poor  king's  eyes,  who  waits 
like  a  beggar  the  supplies  of  a  Parliament,  and  soon 
a  gallant  ship,  manned  by  gallant  hearts,  is  ploughing 
and  exploring  those  unknown  seas,  in  search  of  the 
lost  sailor.  Bravely  and  cheerily  they  go,  to  seek 
the  "  missing  fleet,"  with  manly  hearts,  each  en 
thused  by  the  soul  of  that  true  woman,  whose  prayers 
go  with  them.  The  chivalry  of  the  olden  time,  the 
soul  of  a  Bayard  and  a  Ealeigh,  have  been  reproduced 
in  the  American  merchant,  and  the  American  sailor, 
and  in  America  it  is  that  woman  is  nobly  beloved  and 
nobly  honored  of  her  brother. 

Earth  holds  no  impediment  to  the  American  mer 
chant.  His  brain  is  large  and  active,  and  his  heart 
generous  and  true.  The  oceans  are  charted  into  path 
ways  for  him,  and  continents  zoned  and  belted  by  his 
railways  and  warehouses.  Where  kings  once  extended 
hospitalities,  the  merchant  does  now.  He  entertains  a 
province  of  patriots,  and  founds  whole  colonies  of 
exiles.  America  may  say  what  was  said  of  the 


224  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Tjrians  of  old:  "her  merchants  are  princes."  We 
look  to  them  now  to  carry  on  great  works  rather  than 
to  the  government.  The  merchant  knows  his 
weapons,  and  he  selects  the  best,  unbribed  by  office  or 
power.  He  builds  up  associations,  and  individuals 
become  the  great  national  carriers,  and  men  learn 
to  trust  to  the  rapid,  effective  movements  of  the  Ex 
press,  rather  than  to  the  cumbrous  mails.  Where 
public  measures  fail,  the  merchant  remonstrates  and 
protests,  as  he  is  bound  as  the  representative  of  a 
good  faith  to  do,  but  he  goes  on  steadily  to  work  out 
a  remedy.  Look  to  it,  the  politician  at  the  White 
House,  sent  to  Washington  by  demagogues  who  want 
a  tool,  not  a  man,  is  not  our  ruler.  The  true  ruler  is 
the  American  merchant. 

Such  as  we  have  described  was  Mr.  Dinsmoor.  He 
was  yet  young — the  American  merchant  is  always 
young,  for  he  who  knows  no  impediment  cannot  be 
old.  If  you  visited  his  office,  you  would  have  to  pass 
a  broad  area  filled  with  merchandise,  where  the  stout 
Irishman  laboriously  shoves  aside  huge  boxes  and 
bags,  and  coils  of  .rope,  and  the  heavy  cable  of  the 
fall  swings  back  and  forth  as  weight  after  weight 
comes  from  regions  below  and  ascends  to  unknown 


THE    AMERICAN   MERCHANT.       225 

heights.  At  one  side  the  trim  clerk  stands  "  taking 
account,"  tablets  in  hand,  his  handsome  hair,  youth 
ful  smile,  and  fine  person  all  forgotten,  while  with 
staid  manner,  and  curt  speech,  he  directs  the  move 
ments  of  the  porters.  Here  may  be  seen  the  early 
training  of  the  future  merchant.  At  the  door  is  a 
cart,  one  or  more  coming  and  going  all  the  time,  the 
well-fed,  sleek-looking  dray-horse,  his  face  within  the 
warehouse  as  if  he  understood  all  the  doings  there, 
while  the  fine-looking  black,  who  owns  the  beast, 
now  and  then  pats  him  upon  the  head,  and  gives  at 
the  same  time  a  wipe  of  his  bandana  to  his  own 
clear  ebony  face.  Your  negro  is  always  an  append 
age  to  the  merchant.  He  likes  him  as  well  for  his 
alert  activity  as  the  looks  of  the  thing,  for  the  Ameri 
can  merchant  has  a  fine  eye  for  contrasts. 

Penetrating  to  the  interior  you  encounter  a  large, 
airy  room,  floored  with  manilla  matting,  around  which 
are  ranged  desks,  and  not  many  high  stools,  for  the 
smart,  handsome  clerk  prefers  to  stand,  and  his  fault 
less  tights  have  no  u  stick  out"  at  the  knees  where  he 
has  been  perched  like  a  pigeon,  midway  in  the  air. 
These  desks  are  all  of  mahogany  or  black-walnut, 
free  from  ink-stains,  and  dust.  There  is  nothing 


226  THE    NEWSBOY. 

musty,  nothing  mean-looking,  or  unsightly  about  the 
room  ;  on  the  contrary  it  is  cleanly,  and  even  tasteful 
in  appearance.  The  young  men  are  all  well-dressed, 
with  white  pocket-handkerchiefs,  perhaps  with  an  em 
broidered  corner,  the  work  of  a  favorite  sister,  peep 
ing  from  the  side-pocket,  and  the  younger  ones  have 
a  rose  or  sprig  of  geranium  in  the  button-hole.  This 
is  the  room  of  the  book-keeper  and  clerks. 

Still  onward  is  the  sanctum  of  the  merchant  him 
self,  faultless  in  furniture,  clean,  tasteful  and  comfort 
able.  Here  sits  the  great  man,  plainly  dressed,  but 
yet  carefully  and  appropriately,  for  the  American 
merchants,  as  a  class,  are  the  best-dressed  men  in  the 
community.  In  our  day  the  merchant  is  a  little  more 
reserved  than  is  essential  to  his  position;  he  does 
not  treat  his  dependents  with  quite  the  fatherly  care 
which  his  situation  would  justify  ;  but  time  and  cul 
ture  will  amend  this.  To  this  inner  office  none  are 
admitted  whose  business  can  be  managed  in  the  outer 
rooms ;  but  here  merchants  are  seen  to  come  and  go, 
men  of  science  and  enterprise  bring  their  knowledge 
and  views  hither.  Explorers,  speculators  of  the 
honorable  and  higher  grades,  bankers,  bluff  sea-cap 
tains,  and  younger  merchants  who  need  the  counte- 


THE    MERCHANT    AT    HOME.         23i 

stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  threshold,  and  then 
bounded  forward  to •  encircle  both  in  her  little  arms; 
and  thus  they  sat,  the  happiest  group  this  side  heaven. 
Purely  happy  were  they,  for  Mr.  Dinsmoor  was  manly 
and  protective,  as  well  as  sympathetic  in  heart. 

He  was  an  orderly,  systematic  man  abroad,  and 
liked  the  same  things  at  home.  He  returned  plumply 
at  stroke  of  clock,  to  find  a  sumptuous  dinner,  and  a 
friend  to  share  it,  and  his  fair,  girlish  wife  ready  at 
the  threshold,  in  some  fresh,  pretty  costume,  to  give 
and  receive  the  kiss  of  united  hearts.  Imogen  had 
grown  like  a  sweet  bud,  in  the  sunshine  of  love  only. 
It  did  n't  seem  strange,  therefore,  that  she  was  gentle, 
and  fair,  and  good,  for  the  hearth-stone  is  the  true 
altar  upon  which  to  wing  angels. 

Here  let  me  say,  that  the  household  is  heaven  or 
hell  in  its  incipiency.  Where  congenial  creations 
meet  here  in  a  true  holy  relation,  the  children  thus 
born ..  are  the  flowerings  of  Eden,  as  John  Neal  has 
said  "the  cryptogamia  of  the  skies."  Lovingly  the 
heavens  brood  over  the  roof-tree.  Earliest  in  tke 
morning,  Hesperus  beams  in  golden  bright  through 
the  lattice,  and  aslant  his  rays  glide  down  the  fingers 
of  angels,  each  sliding  with  lute-like  melody  to  bless 
the  morning  dream.  More  gladsome  and  more  pow 
erful  angels  use  the  sharp,  warm  rays  of  the  sun, 
courser-like,  and  they  enter  in  and  move  here  and 


232  THE    NEWSBOY. 

there  with  a  great  joy,  making  glad  everything  within 
the  precincts,  magnetizing  all  within  into  happiness, 
so  that  the  discords  and  turmoils  of  the  world  without 
are  forgotten  or  unknown. 

All  day  they  come  and  go — they  move  in  what 
men  call  sunshine  athwart  the  carpet,  they  dance  like 
a  golden  ball  through  a  crevice  in  the  cornice,  and 
adown  the  garden  walk  they  march  in  bright  battal 
ions.  They  stir  at  the  curtain,  they  press  the  bud  and 
it  blooms,  they  kiss  the  fountain  and  it  is  a  rainbow, 
they  even  touch  the  strings  of  the  harp  and  it  gives 
out  one  note  so  heavenly  sweet  that  you  turn  round 
and  look  and  wonder  whence  it  came  ;  then  the  pen 
dants  of  the  chandelier  click,  and  the  birds  give  out 
melody,  and  the  baby  smiles  in  its  cradle  all  because 
of  the  loving  angels  who  come  to  the  household, 
just  as  they  go  to  any  heaven  where  Love  is. 

Ah !  the  garments  wax  not  old  there — the  moth 
and  rust  of  discontent  mar  no  line  of  beauty  there — 
birds  and  blossoms  cluster  there — white  doves  coo 
from  the  eave-tops,  and  the  trees  lean  away  from 
the  roof  lest  their  great  branches  shut  out  the  sun 
shine  and  the  blue  sky,  and  the  loving  stars  that 
brood  over  it.  Fair  children  creep  to  the  thresh 
old  ;  creeping  children  look  out  wondering,  yet 
gladsome,  as  if  they  looked  first  out  into  the  great 
world  from  the  heaven  of  home — they  shrink  inward 


THE    MERCHANT   AT    HOME.         233 

again,  but  at  length  they  bound  over  the  door-sill 
away,  leaving  the  sunlight  upon  the  door,  and  steal 
ing  inward,  inward,  to  where  lies  the  Bible  upon 
the  table,  and  a  mother's  pure  brow  lifted  in  prayer. 

Onward,  onward,  casting  but  few  and  transient 
glances  backward,  they  go ;  but  at  length  sickness  comes, 
and  they  long  for  the  dear  old  home  ;  sorrow  comes, 
and  they  see  the  sunshine  streaming  as  of  old  through 
the  open  door,  and  falling  upon  the  sacred  word.  But 
the  mother  is  an  angel  now,  and  they  long  to  return 
to  the  dear  old  good  home.  Then  passion,  and 
change,  and  tumult,  shake  the  man  mightily,  and  he 
rests  not  day  nor  night  till  he  too  sets  up  the  altar  of 
home,  and  calls  the  angels  to  enter  the  tabernacle  he 
has  built.  Woman,  thou  art  the  angel  of  home.  Go, 
look  not  into  thy  gilded  glass,  but  look  down  into  the 
clear,  bright  fountain  which  gave  back  thy  face  in 
childhood.  Art  thou  an  angel  of  light,  causing  sun 
shine  over  the  sill ;  or  of  darkness,  brooding  like  a 
raven  wing  over  the  family  altar  ? 

Hatred  has  his  home  also.  The  morning-star 
sends  down  his  angels  into  the  abode,  but  it  is  already 
filled.  Discord  is  knotting  the  cruel  nerve,  and  mak 
ing  deep  the  harsh  wrinkle.  Wiry,  mischief-loving 
spirits  prompt  the  blow-loving  hand,  and  whisper  and 
gibber  malicious,  envious,  and  jealous  dreams  into  the 
sleeping  ear.  The  sun  glides  jubilant  into  the  win- 


234  THE    NEWSBOY. 

dow,  but  lie  is  repelled  by  damp,  noisome  images 
lurking  within.  Snake-like  creatures  keep  ward  and 
watch.  Moles,  and  bats,  and  moths,  and  reptiles 
silently  destroy.  Dark  vines  darken  the  lattice.  The 
raven  and  the  night-owl  have  usurped  the  roof.  Ob 
scure  rappings  and  mysterious  movements  fill  the 
space  more  with  terror  than  with  awe.  The  child  in 
the  cradle  cries  sharply,  for  his  holy  guardian  con 
tends  with  a  black  spirit  which  would  force  him  away. 
Children  creep  to  the  threshold,  and  look  out  into  the 
great  unknown  world,  but  it  looks  less  terrible  than 
home,  and  they  creep  forth,  willing  to  encounter  the 
worst.  They  look  backward,  but  there  is  no  sunshine 
on  the  sill,  no  brooding  love-angel  there.  Sickness 
comes,  and  the  cold  charity  of  the  stranger  is  wel 
come.  Sorrow  comes,  and  the  "  silver  cord  "  which 
binds  together  the  great  human  family,  draws  him 
into  the  circle,  and  owns  him  brother.  Passion  and 
crime  pluck  at  the  miserable  man,  and  there  are  no 
memories  of  holy  wisdom  to  say  "remember;"  no 
prayer  rising  like  a  cool  incense  between  the  scorched 
heart  and  heaven,  and  he  battles  the  world  alone, 
weak  and  unaided,  for  home  was  no  home  for  the 
spirit.  Woman,  look  to  it.  This  is  thy  work — this 
blood  is  upon  thy  skirts. 

While  we  have  talked,  the  breakfast-bell  has  been 
rung,  and  our  happy  family  talked  and  partook  of  it, 


THE    MEKCHANT    AT    HOME.         285 

happy  in  themselves  and  in  each  other.  It  was  decided 
that  Imogen  should  give  a  little  fete  to  her  young 
friends  upon  this  all-important  occasion  of  a  birth 
day  ;  and  soon  the  ordinarily  quiet  household  gave 
unwonted  evidence  of  action.  Mr.  Dinsmore  prom 
ised  to  dance  a  waltz  with  Fannie  and  Imogen ;  the 
neighbors  should  be  invited,  especially  the  Gardners, 
who  had  always  been  so  friendly,  and  were  so  simple- 
hearted  and  cultivated,  and  yet  far  from  rich.  Charles 
Gardner,  the  son,  though  rather  old  for  the  little  folks, 
should  come,  because  Imogen  said  he  "  danced  so 
splendidly  "  It 's  true,  she  added,  "  he  is  a  tease  and 
a  plague,  and  uses  big  words  to  laugh  at  me,  but  then 
he  is  so  handsome,  and  such  a  gentleman,  is  n't  he 
mamma  ?" 

Fannie  laughed.  "  He  is  all  that,  darling,  but  he 
is  too  old,  and  will  not  care  to  come  with  such  little 
children,  I  fear,  Imogen." 

The  child's  face  fell  sensibly.  Charles  had  tossed 
her  bouquets  over  the  wall,  and  bunches  of  grapes, 
and  brought  her  baskets  of  cherries,  ever  since  she 
could  remember  anything.  She  had  no  memory  of 
a  time  when  she  and  Charles  had  not  talked  over  the 
arbor,  and  through  the  blinds,  and  across  the  piazza — • 
and  they  used  to  kiss  each  other  at  the  end  of  the  bal 
cony  always.  True,  Charles  had  learned  to  tease  her 
a  good  deal  of  late,  had  mimicked  her  singing,  and 


236  THE    NEWSBOY. 

when  she  came  out  with  any  new  coquetry  he  had 
practiced  it  over  till  she  grew  ashamed  of  it ;  and  then 
it  was  her  turn  to  punish  him,  and  she  would  shut 
herself  up  for  a  whole  day,  and  pass  nearly  all  of 
it  in  peeping  through  the  blinds  to  enjoy  his  dis 
appointment  as  he  went  from  place  to  place,  through 
the  garden,  behind  the  arbor,  over  the  balcony, 
and  whistled,  and  sung,  and  called  her  name  softly  ; 
and  when  she  came  out  upon  the  piazza,  just  by  acci 
dent,  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see  the  glad  smile  of  the 
handsome  boy,  and  wasn't  there  something  dearer 
than  ever  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  ? 

Imogen  thought  all  this  in  her  heart  as  she  went 
about  arranging  flowers  in  some  vases  for  the  table, 
and  at  length  she  replied  : 

"  Not  have  Charles  Gardner  here  to-night  mamma  ? 
I  never  heard  of  anything  so  strange  in  all  my  life. 
I  should  n't  feel  as  if  I  had  any  party  at  all  without 
Charles.  There's  Tommy  C.  will  be  asking  every 
minute  when  we'll  have  supper.  Julian  does  no 
thing  but  look  at  the.  books,  and  papers,  and  prints. 
Henry  is  too  fat  for  any  living  creature,  and  so  stupid 
at  that,  and  William  mopes  about  half  asleep.  Upon 
my  word,  mamma,  all  the  girls  will  have  a  nice  time 
but  just  me.  They  all  want  to  eat,  and  dance,  and 
whisper  with  the  boys,  and  there  is  n't  one  of  them 
but  Charles  that  I  can  talk  at  all  with ;  and  its  my 


THE    MERCHANT   AT    HOME.         237 

birth-day  too,"  and  Imogen  was  as  much  distressed  as 
many  a  belle  of  twice  her  years  condemned  to  the 
companionship  of  bores. 

"  Charles  is  in  college  now,  Imogen,  and  studies 
very  hard,  and  such  a  little  girl  as  my  daughter  might 
not  interest  him.  But  here  he  is,  and  shall  decide  for 
himself." 

Charles  declared  he  should  have  been  greatly  dis 
appointed  not  to  come,  in  a  way  that  quite  reassured 
Imogen ;  indeed,  he  said  he  must  claim  her  as  his 
partner  in  the  dance,  whereat  the  young  beauty  tossed 
back  her  curls  and  muttered  something  about  not 
being  "  his  partner  as  a  matter  of  course,"  whereat 
Charles  laughed  gaily,  and  replied  : 

"  Oh  I  by  no  means,  Miss  Imogen ;  I  shall  come 
like  a  knight  of  the  olden  time,  kneeling  upon  one 
knee  and  imploring  the  inestimable  privilege." 

"  Well,  and  why  should  n't  you  come  in  that 
way?"  laughed  the  child,  in  a  manner  that  showed 
she  would  like  to  queen  it  well. 

"Oh  I  I  will  do  so  ;  let  me  go  through  my  paces 
now,  to  be  sure  all  is  right ;"  and  he  sank  upon  one 
knee,  and  in  a  mock  heroic  voice  exclaimed : 

"  Most  august  and  noble  lady,  wilt  thou  vouchsafe 
to  your  adoring  slave  the  inestimable  privilege  of 
touching  the  tips  of  your  dainty  fingers,  while  we 
thread  the  intricate  mazes  of  a  dance  ?" 


238  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Knowing  thee  not  unworthy,  I  grant  thy  re 
quest,"  replied  the  child,  coloring  and  laughing  while 
she  extended  her  hand  to  raise  the  youth. 

It  was  evident  Imogen  liked  to  see  Charles  at  her 
feet,  young  as  she  was ;  and  when  Charles  attempted 
to  take  a  kiss  she  drew  back  in  a  little  queen-like 
way,  and  offered  the  tips  of  her  ringers.  Of  course 
Charles  kissed  them,  but  he  looked  grave  when  he 
went  out  with  books  in  hand  to  his  daily  studies.  It 
was  quite  natural  that  Imogen  should  go  out  upon  the 
piazza  after  him,  and  that  Charles  should  look  back 
as  he  went  down  the  steps,  and,  seeing  Imogen  there, 
most  natural  that  he  should  return  and  kiss  her  in  the 
dear  old  way ;  and  then  as  he  neared  the  corner  it 
was  natural  that  he  should  look  back  and  kiss  his  fin 
gers  to  Imogen ;  and  then  he  went  on  his  way  more 
joyful  for  that  innocent  caress,  and  the  book  had  new 
charms  in  thinking  of  it,  and  the  old  stained  desk  and 
ricketty  chairs  of  the  scholars'  room  had  a  rose  tinge 
all  that  day  seen  through  its*  atmosphere.  Long  years 
it  was  thought  of  and  treasured  in  the  memory  as 
something  chaste  and  heavenly.  Long  years  the  lips 
of  the  beautiful  boy  were  hallowed  by  the  touch,  and 
none  others  came  to  efface  it,  and  the  heart  and  the 
life  was  held  virginal  because  of  that  kiss.  Blessed 
is  the  youth  who  holds  in  his  pure  heart  such  mem 
ories. 


XXXIV. 


IMOGEN'S  party  was  quite  perfect  in  kind.  At 
first  the  little  men  and  women  crowded  about,  intent 
upon  aping  the  manners  of  the  elders  upon  such  oc 
casions,  but  eventually  the  child-nature  triumphed, 
and  they  were  content  to  enjoy  as  children  will.  This 
was  a  great  relief  to  Imogen,  who  was  too  spontaneous 
to  be  held  long  in  the  bondage  of  mere  conventional 
ism,  and  when  they  settled  down  into  little  games 
adapted  to  their  years,  she  was  quite  happy,  notwith 
standing  for  awhile  a  few  apish  little  dullards  held 
themselves  aloof,  in  a  sort  of  obstinate,  monkeyfied, 
old-folks  gentility,  till  finding  themselves  unnoticed 
of  their  companions,  they  thought  better  of  it,  and 
joined  in  the  sports. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  those  little  ones,  happy  in 
themselves,  in  their  youth,  and  health,  and  inno- 
cency  ;  happy  also  in  their  pretty  gear,  for  every  cul- 


240  THE    NEWSBOY. 

tivated  child;  as  well  as  grown  child,  is  best  content 
when  his  or  her  garments  are  in  accordance  with  the 
sentiments  of  taste  and  beauty.  All  were  not  alike 
lovely,  children  though  they  were.  The  stamp  of  the 
parent  was  upon  them,  for  better  or  for  worse.  There 
were  thin,  pale  children  ;  helpless,  innocent  victims  to 
by-gone  sins,  aching  in  their  little  bones,  fevered  with 
evil  dreams,  and  turbulent  passions,  because  some  one 
or  more  of  their  ancestors  took  the  bond  of  the  cov 
enant  of  marriage,  when  the  tight  bond  of  the  hang 
man's  rope  were  more  befitting.  Ah !  what  to  these 
the  broidered  robe,  the  delicate  lace,  the  graceful 
shape,  when  disease  crept  silently  within,  and  the 
sweet  breath  and  delicate  aromas  of  childhood  were 
laden  with  incipient  corruption. 

There  were  harsh,  passionate  children,  whose  rude 
tones  betrayed  their  recent  origin ;  whom  neither  gor 
geous  draping,  nor  training,  nor  wealth,  could  trans 
form  into  the  higher  harmonies  of  fair  breeding. 
There  were  plump  young  Hebe's  and  stately  Dians, 
chaste  from  infancy  ;  and  premature  Venuses,  and  girls 
of  wit,  and  grace,  and  loveliness,  but  none  so  indi 
vidual,  so  ideal,  as  the  beautiful,  wayward,  dainty 
Imogen. 

They  were  redeeming  forfeits,  and  the  little  judge 
sat  with  bandaged  eyes  dispensing  penalties  with  in- 


THE    NIGHT    COME.  241 

stinetive  appropriateness.  One  was  to  stand  in  the 
midst  of  the  floor  and  repeat, 

"  Here  I  stand  all  stiff  and  still, 
Come  and  kiss  me  if  you  will ;" 

and  nothing  loth  were  the  young  boys  to  redeem  this 
forfeit.  Another  repeated, 

"  Whirl  to  the  left,  and  whirl  to  the  right, 
Come  kiss  me  ere  I  take  my  flight ;" 

and  great  was  the  running,  and  the  tossing  of  curls, 
and  glittering  of  bright  eyes,  as  the  little  ones  darted 
here  and  there. 

Then  there  was  "  kneel  to  the  wittiest,  bow  to  the 
prettiest,  and  kiss  the  one  you  love  best,"  which  was 
sure  to  give  rise  to  a  world  of  infantile  rivalries, 
coquetries,  and  poutings.  At  length  the  heedless 
ones  doomed  Imogen  to  "go  across  the  street,  and 
knock  on  the  old  railway  car  in  the  vacant  lot." 

Quick  as  thought  the  child,  with  her  favorite  kit 
ten  in  her  arms,  darted  from  the  house.  The  black 
night  received  her.  There  was  no  moon  in  the 
heavens — there  were  no  stars  except  as  you  looked 
directly  above  your  head,  there  was  a  circle  of  clear 
blue  gemmed  with  stars,  which  the  exhalations  from 
the  great  wicked  city  could  not  hide.  The  lamps 

winked  stealthily  here  and  there  through  the  misty 
11 


242  THE   NEWSBOY. 

night,  and  gleamed  upon  her  white  shoulders  and 
flowing  hair.  The  star  Lyra  in  the  zenith  touched 
a  sad  wailing  note  to  call  up  in  the  dark  night  those 
who  hold  ward  and  watch  over  the  steps  of  beauty. 

Onward  went  the  child,  and  her  quick  rap  was 
answered  by  the  Newsboy,  as  we  have  seen.  She 
looked  brightly  around  the  humble  dwelling,  uttering 
her  comments  in  honeyed  words,  and  then  she  was 
gone,  gone  into  the  black  night  once  more. 

Years  came  and  went,  and  yet  it  was  night — 
night  —  dark,  impenetrable  night.  It  came  down 
upon  the  home  of  luxury  thick  and  black — upon  the 
pure,  conjugal  home  like  the  shadow  of  death.  It 
came  down  upon  the  household  in  the  old  car,  where 
hitherto  the  light  had  come  bravely  down,  because 
brave  was  the  great  heart  of  the  Newsboy,  and  a 
shadow  fell,  never  more  to  be  lifted  therefrom. 

Bob  sat,  as  we  have  shown,  talking  with  Kack-o'- 
bones,  when  the  plaintive  cry  of  "  Imogen "  came 
through  the  night  silence,  and  he  went  out  to  learn 
what  it  could  mean.  Three  times  had  that  little  hand 
.been  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  it  had  become  mingled 
with  something  which  appealed  to  him,  how  or  why  he 
could  not  tell.  He  now  moved  rapidly  across  the  ash- 
heaps,  and  neared'  the  street.  In  the  angle  of  the  wall 
he  encountered  a  man  who  seemed  to  be  laughing 
alone  to  himself,  but  as  he  went  on  in  silence,  Bob 


THE    NIGHT    COME.  243 

did  not  accost  him,  but  only  muttered,  "  There  's  no 
good  in  a  laugh  like  that." 

'Again  was  the  name  of  Imogen  repeated,  but  this 
time  in  a  voice  low,  clear  but  tremulous,  and  Bob  saw 
in  front  of  the  great  stone  house  before  named,  a  lady 
with  head  bent  and  eyes  searching  wildly  out  into  the 
black  night,  while  ever  and  anon  she  cried,  "Imogen! 
Imogen  I" 

All  was  confusion  about  the  mansion.  The  po 
lice  were  already  on  guard,  carriages  were  conveying 
the  little  ones  from  a  place  so  suddenly  converted  to 
one  of  calamity,  and  friends  were  hastening  with  good 
hearts  to  proffer  aid  or  consolation. 

For  awhile  Bob  watched  all  this  in  silence,  but  as 
he  saw  the  lady  still  looking  out  into  the  black  night, 
unwilling  to  leave  the  door  notwithstanding  the  en 
treaties  of  those  about  her,  he  ascended  the  steps,  and 
confronted  the  sufferer  with  a  look  so  full  of  grief  and 
pity,  that  the  lady  instinctively  laid  her  white  hand 
upon  his  head,  and  held  it  there,  perhaps  unconscious 
she  did  so,  till  Bob  sank  down  overcome  with  his  own 
sad  memories.  Once  in  the  night  time  he  had  felt  the 
hand  of  Minnie's  mother  upon  his  head,  but  the  touch 
was  unlike  this,  which  was  so  cold,  so  deathly  cold, 
that  it  seemed  little  less  than  ice. 

At  length  Bob  looked  up  and  said, 

"  Silver-tongue  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  she  did, 


244  THE    NEWSBOY. 

and  I  feel  it  there  now.  You  call  her  Imogen,  but 
she 's  a  silver-tongue  to  Bob." 

Somehow  the  Newsboy  with  his  heart  full  of  the 
thought  of  Minnie,  felt  that  he  could  say  something 
to  delude  that  deepening  woe  of  the  poor  mother,  and 
he  took  her  hand  in  his  and  led  her  inward  unresist 
ing,  just  as  the  wretched  Edgar  led  the  more  wretch 
ed  King  Lear,  because  of  the  sorrow  that  made  them 
equal. 

Placing  the  mother,  tearless  and  marble  white  in 
her  agony  in  one  of  the  large  chairs,  Bob  knelt  upon 
one  knee  before  her.  He  did  not  see  the  weeping 
friends,  the  trembling  menials,  the  large  gorgeous 
room  ;  he  saw  only  a  stricken,  bleeding  heart,  and  his 
own  bled  with  it. 

"  You  is  Imogen's  mother,  ma'am  ?"  he  asked. 

The  lady's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his,  but  she  did  n't 
speak. 

"  I  knows  how  mothers  feels  ever  since  I  had 
Minnie,"  continued  Bob.  "  Yesterday  I  carried  her 
way  down  to  the  sea-shore,  and  laid  her  away,  and 
ever  since  I  feels  her  hand  on  my  heart,  I  does,  just 
as  she  used  to  say,  Bob  '11  need  Minnie's  hand  on  his 
heart  to  comfort  him." 

The  boy's  head  leaned  forward  upon  the  arm  of  the 
chair  a  moment.  When  he  looked  up  the  lady's  eye 
had  not  moved.  She  looked  so  statue-like,  with  her 


THE    NIGHT   COME.  245 

cold  jeweled  hand,  and  her  white  face  turned  towards 
him,  that  Bob  shuddered,  and  said, 

"That's  the  way  Minnie's  mother  looked.  Ah! 
ma'am,  many  's  the  face  I 's  seen  lookin'  pale  for  the 
hunger  and  the  misery.  Silver- tongue,  Imogen, '11 
come  back,  I  knows  it,  I  feels  it.  'Cause  why  ?  her 
hand's  been  on  Bob's  arm  so  many  years,  he  never '11 
give  her  up.  Does  n't  you  pray,  ma'am  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  move,  her  cold  hands  lay 
helplessly  upon  her  lap,  her  brow  was  not  contracted 
even,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  dilated. 

"  Does  n't  you  never  pray,  ma'am  ?"  asked  Bob 
again.  "  I  does  as  well  as  I  can,  and  I  has  al'ays  felt 
as  if  I  could  bring  everything  good  by  prayin'.  I 
have  called  for  blessin's  on  the  head  of  Imogen,  and 
it  will  come,  yes  it  will  come,"  continued  Bob,  rising  ; 
"  I  feels  a  something  telling  me  to  do,  and  when  I 
does  it,  everything  works  round  right.  I  puts  Min 
nie's  rose  tree  in  the  sun  and  the  buds  come  out.  I 
takes  a  poor  broken  back  little  critter,  whose  mother 's 
been  driv'  into  the  sea,  and  I  makes  more  money,  I 
doesn't  know  how,  but  it  comes ;  I  takes  a  baby  scream- 
in'  out  o'  the  gutter,  and  its  jist  the  same  blessin's  fol- 
lers.  Love  one  another,  do  good  as  ye  have  opportu 
nity,  and  God  (I  does  n't  know  much  about  him),  bat 
God  sees  it  all,  and  he  sends  a  little  hand  to  lie  on  the 
heart  when  we  needs  it,  and  another  is  put  on  the 


246  THE    NEWSBOY. 

head,  and  when  a  little  hand  has  been  laid  for  a  good 
many  years  on  the  arm,  it  means  "  help  me,"  and  it 
means  we  can  help,  and  it  means  we  will  help,  and 
Bob  will  do  it,  or  he  will  die  in  tryin'  to  do  it." 

The  lady  lifted  up  her  hand  slow  and  heavy  and 
laid  it  upon  Bob's  arm  just  where  Imogen  laid  hers 
years  before,  and  Bob  went  on  : 

"Yes,  lay  your  poor,  cold  hand  on  Bob's  arm;  its 
a  rough  hand,  ma'am,"  and  he  laid  his  palm  over  the 
snow-flake  one,  "but  it  never  did  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  on.  It  never  did  a  cruel  thing,  and  it  never 
minded  the  work.  I  remembers  the  time,  ma'am, 
when  I  knelt  down  in  Grace  ;  the  folks  was  all  goin' 
by,  and  I  was  in  the  way,  I  was,  but  I  wanted  to  learn 
iabout  the  prayin',  and  lovin',  and  about  the  Lord,  for 
I  was  a  heathen,  I  was,  and  God  sent  me  there.  I 
know  it  now,  for  Imogen  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm 
and  took  me  in,  and  we  knelt  down  there.  I  learned 
what  I  never  forgot,  ma'am,  that  day.  Does  n't  you 
thinks  you  knows  me,  ma'am  ?" 

A  deep  sob  escaped  the  lips  of  the  lady,  and  her 
head  leaned  upon  the  Newsboy's  shoulder.  Mr.  Dins- 
moor  came  in  now,  and  he  lifted  up  the  head  and 
placed  it  against  his  own  heart.  Fannie  tried  to 
speak,  but  no  words  came,  and  she  could  only  point 
to  Bob,  and  lay  her  hand  upon  his  head. 

"It's  a  blessin'  of  me,  she  does,"  said  he,  "for  I 


THE    NIGHT    COME.  247 

saw  Imogen  ;  she  came  to  the  old  car  and  looked  in  ;" 
and  he  went  on  to  tell  in  brief  words  how  he  had 
seen  the  child  more  than  once,  and  believed  himself 
called  to  be  her  protector,  but  the  Merchant  looked 
his  incredulity;  he  had  sent  the  police  in  all  direc 
tions  and  offered  large  sums  of  money,  and  men  are 
apt  to  think  that  money  is  more  omnipotent  than 
prayer,  more  omnipotent  than  trust  in  God. 


XXXV. 

ft  urn  llatJts  |sr*. 


ALL  night  the  Newsboy  kept  awake,  threading  to 
gether,  link  by  link,  circumstances  which  coupled  the 
tall,  dark  gentleman,  with  the  disappearance  of  Imo 
gen.  When  the  light  began  to  dawn  he  looked  out, 
but  the  dark  man  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  yet 
he  was  now  convinced  that  he  had  daily  watched  the 
windows  of  Imogen's  room,  as  she  sat  in  the  morning 
light.  In  the  rounds  of  his  daily  toil  he  went  from 
place  to  place  where  he  had  recollected  to  have  seen 
him.  At  length  he  saw  the  man  in  front  of  Florence's, 
and  the  Newsboy  stopped  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
his  face  —  an  honest,  penetrating  look,  before  which  the 
man  quailed.  It  was  evident  he  recollected  Bob,  but 
he  accosted  him  carelessly,  with  "  Here,  give  us  a  pa 
per,  Bub,"  and  then  turned  into  the  saloon. 

Bob  walked  on  thoughtfully,  and  yet  determined 
to  watch  the  movements  of  the  man.  He  waited  at  one 


LETTER   FROM   FLASHY   JACK.      249 

of  the  corners  till  lie  came  out  and  took  a  stage  up 
town.  Bob  seated  himself  with  the  driver  unob 
served,  and  watched  the  exit  of  the  several  passen 
gers.  The  stranger  left  the  stage  at  Abingdon  square. 
He  looked  about  him,  and  then  entered  a  house  with 
a  night-key.  Bob  made  some  inquiries  at  the  grocer's 
in  the  corner,  •  for  the  grocer  is  as  good  as  a  directory 
for  a  neighborhood. 

"  Oh !  that  is  the  Spanish  gentlemen  lives  there. 
Doesn't  speak  a  word  of  English,  has  an  old  deaf, 
half  blind  housekeeper,  with  a  wen  on  her  neck. 
Good  people,  peaceable,  pay  well,  Catholics ;  some  say 
they  belong  to  the  Jesuits.  Never  bother  about  peo 
ple  that  pay  up  well,"  added  the  grocer,  as  if  ashamed 
of  his  communicativeness,  and  he  put  up  a  quarter  of 
a  pound  of  tea,  and  seven  pounds  of  flour  for  a  bare 
footed  girl,  with  a  squint  eye,  who  did  all-work  for  a 
neighboring  dame.  Then  he  weighed  out  a  half- 
pound  of  butter  for  another,  and  patted  it  down  with 
his  wooden  spoon  and  covered  it  with  a  bit  of  paper. 

At  this  moment  the  woman  of  the  wen  entered 
the  shop  while  the  man's  back  was  turned.  Bob  saw 
that  her  black  eyes  glanced  keenly  round  the  shop, 
and  he  saw  that  she  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot. 
Bob's  instincts  told  him  that  her  employer  had  seen 
him  upon  the  stage,  and  had  sent  her  out  to  watch  his 

movements. 

11* 


250  THE   NEWSBOY. 

She  priced  several  articles. 

"  Here  's  a  chap  been  inquiring  about  your  folks," 
said  the  grocer. 

"  Hay" —  said  the  woman,  making  a  trumpet  of 
her  hand,  and  listening  intently. 

"  I  say,  here  's  a  chap  asking  about  your  folks," 
screamed  the  man. 

"What  does  he  want  of  our  folks?"  asked  the 
woman,  turning  sharply  upon  the  Newsboy ;  but  he 
was  gone,  and  gone,  too,  with  the  conviction  that  she 
was  one  of  the  guilty  party.  The  woman  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  grocery  under  pretence  of  arrang 
ing  the  articles  in  her  basket,  but  she  looked  in  all 
directions,  and  as  she  did  not  see  Bob  looking  out 
from  between  the  box  for  shutters  and  a  large  crate  of 
a  neighboring  shop,  she  went  on  ;  but  as  Bob  was 
thus  ensconced,  a  ragged  fellow,  with  his  two  hands 
thrust  down  into  his  pockets,  stubbed  along  by  him, 
and  he  remembered  him  at  once  as  one  of  the  three 
whom  he  had  more  than  once  seen  about  the  premises 
of  Mr.  Dinsmoor.  The  fellow  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  saying,  "  Give  us  a  light,  Bub ;"  but  the  boy 
knew  it  was  only  a  pretext. 

"  I  does  n't  smoke,"  he  replied,  passing  onward. 
The  fellow  followed  him  in  the  distance,  till  con 
scious  that  the  Newsboy  understood  and  watched 
his  movements,  he  desisted.  At  length  Bob  neared 


LETTER  FROM  FLASHY  JACK.   251 

his  own  dwelling:  lie  saw  the  side  of  an  old 
boot  just  visible  under  the  car,  and  he  knew  the 
boot  contained  a  living  foot,  so  he  passed  along  be 
hind  some  heaps  of  rubbish  and  watched  its  move 
ments. 

He  saw  Kack-o'-bones  come  to  the  door  holding 
Dady  in  her  arms,  and  evidently  wondering  at  his 
long  absence;  then  she  came  out  again  after  Dady  was 
put  to  sleep,  and  started  back  to  find  a  man  close  to 
the  threshold.  Bob  saw  him  also  by  the  light  from 
within,  more  than  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  as  the 
door  was  hidden  in  the  shadow,  and  he  was  glad  the 
old  woman  had  thus  unconsciously  aided  him.  At 
length  another  man  walked  carelessly  across  the  lot, 
whistling  an  idle  tune  to  which  the  man  in  the  shadow 
of  the  car  responded.  There  was  nothing  extraordi 
nary  in  this  to  a  common  observer,  but  Bob  was  con 
vinced  that  there  was  a  system  of  concert  between  the 
parties  about  his  domicil  and  the  occupants  of  the 
house  in  Abingdon  square. 

The  two  men  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  lot 
as  if  searching  for  something,  and  Bob  took  the  op 
portunity  while  they  were  at  the  far  side,  to  glide 
quietly  into  the  street  and  ascend  the  steps  of  Mr. 
Dinsmoor's  house.  He  had  just  given  a  strong  pull 
at  the  bell  when  a  blow  from  a  third  party  felled  him 
to  the  earth. 


252  THE    NEWSBOY. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mr.  Dinsmoor  himself, 
who  called  for  aid,  and  poor  Bob  was  carried  within 
totally  insensible  and  bleeding,  but  not  till  Kack-o'- 
bones  had  caught  sight  of  the  body  as  she  came  out 
into  the  street  in  the  hope  of  finding  him.  Bob  had 
suffered  so  much  of  late  that  the  good  creature  feared 
he  might  be  stricken  down  by  some  sudden  illness. 
She  followed  those  who  conveyed  Bob  into  the  house, 
and,  though  taciturn  and  solitary,  she  gave  way  to  a 
loud  cry  as  she  witnessed  the  blood  flowing  from  his 
head. 

"  Oh,  Bob,  I  feared  as  much,  and  I  wanted  to  give 
you  this  paper ;  had  you  got  it,  this  would  n't  have 
been." 

"  Let  me  see  the  paper,"  said  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  think 
ing  of  Imogen,  of  whom  no  tidings  had  as  yet  been 
obtained.  The  woman  handed  him  a  dirty  piece  of 
crumpled  paper,  from  which  he  read  the  following : 

"DEAR  BOB,— 

\  "  There  's  the  deuce  to  pay  somewhere,  but  what 
it  means,  blow  me  if  I  can  tell.  A  girl 's  been  carried 
off,  and  they  say  they  mean  to  nab  you  about  it. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  the  girl,  but  I  know,  Bob,  you 
would  never  have  anything  to  do  with  such  a  devilish 
trick.  I  never  mind  much  when  a  man  's  concerned ; 
he  ought  to  have  wit  and  strength  to  take  care  of 


LETTER  FROM  FLASHY  JACK.       253 

himself;  but  a  woman,  letting  alone  a  little  girl,  is 
another  matter.  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  it  all 
means.  I  don't  understand  a  word  about  it,  only 
Maggie  (she  's  a  gallus  I  tell  you,  Bob)  told  me  you. 
was  in  danger,  and  so  I  write  this  to  warn  you.  Don't 
go  home,  Bob,  yet  awhile ;  go  and  sleep  about  as  you 
used  to  do,  before  you  took  to  fatherin'  them  brats. 
I  'm  sorry  for  the  little  hunchback,  somehow  she  made 
me  think  about  things  pleasanter  than  we  boys  was 
brought  up  to,  and  so  did  Sam  and  Mary  as  to  that. 
My  time  '11  come,  Bob ;  I  mean  to  cut  every  scamp  of 
them  by-and-bye,  for  their  slang  makes  me  sick. 
Jack 's  got  a  clean  spot  inside,  if  he  could  only  clean 
out  the  rest  of  him.  Don't  go  home,  Bob,  don't.  I 
aint  in  their  confidence,  or  I  'd  peach,  blast  me,  if  I 
would  n't.  Maggie  '11  throw  this  into  your  door,  in 
case  I  should  n't  find  you. 

"JACK,  alias  FLASHY  JACK." 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  read  this  characteristic  note  of 
Flashy  Jack  half  aloud ;  and  as  he  did  so,  he  was 
not  surprised  that  a  police  officer  half  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  for  he  had  offered  strong  inducements  for 
them  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  Mayor  also  had  issued 
a  proclamation  setting  forth  the  disappearance  of  the 
child,  and  calling  upon  all  to  aid  in  the  search ;  and  of 
fering  large  rewards  for  any  clue  that  might  lead  to  the 


254  THE    NEWSBOY. 

detection  of  the  guilty  perpetrators  of  the  crime.  But 
had  Mr.  Dinsmoor  followed  the  man  suspiciously,  he 
would  have  seen  that  he  had  hardly  descended  from 
the  steps,  and  turned  a  corner  at  an  easy  pace,  before 
the  star  of  office  disappeared ;  the  man  took  a  jointed 
stick  from  his  bosom,  which  a  slight  movement  con 
verted  into  an  ordinary  gentleman's  cane ;  the  unreal 
whiskers  disappeared  from  either  cheek,  and  he  was 
one  of  those  common,  e  very-day  looking  men,  whom 
we  encounter  by  thousands,  and  whose  features  and 
looks  we  no  more  remember  than  if  we  had  never 
met  them. 

The  man  was  not  in  the  least  excited  at  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  read.  He  knew  the  police  were 
not  in  the  vicinity  at  the  moment,  for  he  had  cast 
about  warily  before  he  exhibited  signs  of  office.  He 
knew  also,  that  in  times  of  excitement  your  man  of 
steady  nerves  wins  the  day,  so  that  in  case  of  the 
worst  he  could  trust  to  his  own  address. 

As  he  left  the  Dinsmoor  house  behind  him,  he 
grew  more  and  more  assured.  He  tucked  his  cane 
under  his  arm,  and  drew  on  a  pair  of  tan-colored 
gloves,  and  then  seeing  a  stage  in  the  distance,  he 
waited  in  an  easy,  unrestrained  attitude  for  its  ap 
proach  ;  held  up  a  finger  carelessly  for  the  driver  to 
stop,  and  proceeded  down  Broadway.  Opposite 
Thompson's  saloon  he  got  out,  and  walked  up  the 


LETTER   FROM    FLASHY   JACK.      255 

long  room  to  the  raised  portion  at  the  head,  ascended 
the  two  or  three  steps,  exhibiting  garments  of  a  fash 
ionable  out,  and  Spanish  boots.  Here  he  drew  a  chair 
to  the  table,  and  joined  the  dark  gentleman  before 
named,  and  whom  the  grocer  had  called  the  Span 
iard.  There  was  nothing  peculiar  in  his  move 
ments,  except  that  he  turned  somewhat  from  the 
light ;  and  at  the  approach  of  the  waiter  you  might 
have  thought  his  attitude  of  both  hands  supporting 
his  chin,  which  thus  distorted  the  whole  face,  by 
pressing  the  muscles  upward,  and  concealing  the 
mouth,  rather  an  ungainly  one.  The  two  nodded 
familiarly  to  each  other,  and  then  each  seemed  bent 
upon  reading  the  papers,  while  the  attendant  placed  a 
mint  julep  and  refreshments  before  them. 


XXXYI. 


"  COSMELLO,"  said  the  man  wlio  last  entered,  ad 
dressing  the  Spaniard,  "  I  '11  drink  your  heart's  blood 
if  you  don't  pay  me  well  for  this  business.  I  'm  tired 
of  the  game  ;"  and  he  put  down  his  lips  to  the  stick  of 
straw  in  the  tumbler,  and  continued  to  suck  away  at 
the  liquor,  as  if  that  was  all  in  which  he  felt  the  least 
interest  for  the  time  being. 

The  person  addressed  did  not  move  a  muscle,  nor 
reply  at  once,  and  then  not  at  all  to  the  remark  of  the 
other. 

"Is  the  last  issue  disposed  of?"  he  asked,  without 
scarcely  moving  his  lips. 

His  companion  chuckled  audibly  :  "Been  his  last 
round,  I  reckon.  I  never  knocked  out  a  nigger  flat 
ter  than  him."  It  was  evident  the  man  had  been  a 
slave-driver. 

"  How  did  you  contrive  it?"  asked  the  other.  "I 
knew  by  his  looks  he  had  a  suspicion  of  us." 


THE    K E N D E z y o u s .  257 

"  I  saw  liim  going  up  tlie  steps,  and  just  as  he  had 
his  hand  on  the  knob,  I  let  drive,  out  with  my  star, 
and  helped  to  carry  him  in ;  the  d — d  fools  thought  I 
was  the  one  to  ring ;"  and  the  man  left  off  sucking  at 
the  straw,  tipped  back  his  chair,  and  gave  way  to  a 
loud  laugh,  while  at  the  same  time  he  thrust  both 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  pantaloons. 

The  people  in  the  vicinity  looked  up,  and  thought 
the  gentleman  wondrous  merry,  for  the  next  moment 
he  brought  his  chair  forward  with  a  crash,  slapped 
the  side  of  his  leg  with  his  gloved  palm,  and  burst  out 
into  another  laugh.  The  man  at  the  lower  part  of 
the  saloon,  a  sort  of  private  policeman,  looked  that 
way,  but  the  two  resumed  their  liquor,  and  he  took 
no  more  notice  of  them,  for  everybody  likes  to  hear 
a  good  hearty  laugh. 

Then  the  man  tipped  his  chair  forward,  shook  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  slapped  his  leg  again,  and 
tickled  out  again  into  suppressed  laughter. 

"  Zounds,  't  was  the  finest  thing  I  ever  done.  I 
liked  to  a  gone  mad  over  it,  only  I  had  to  keep  all 
smooth  and  square-looking." 

"I  wish  you  would  command  yourself  still  fur 
ther,"  said  the  Spaniard.  "I  see  nothing  to  laugh 
at — the  fools  are  all  looking  this  way — suck  away  and 
be  d d  to  you." 

So  reprimanded,  the  other  abated  his  mirth,  and 


258  THE    NEWSBOY. 

turned  once  more  to  the  tumbler;  "but,"  he  added, 
"  the  best  is  to  come  yet,"  and  he  was  about  to  burst 
into  another  laugh,  when  the  Spaniard,  irritated  be 
yond  endurance,  brought  out  his  accustomed  "  Sacre," 
under  his  breath,  and  grew  absolutely  black  with  rage. 
The  man  seemed  to  understand  that  he  must  suppress 
further  trifling,  for  he  went  on, 

"  Flashy  Jack  warned  the  rascal — I  saw  the  let 
ter." 

This  time  Cosmello  lifted  up  his  brows  in  amaze 
ment.  "You?  where?  how?" 

"  Oh,  in  my  character  of  policeman,  I  looked 
over  Dinsmoor's  shoulder,  and  read  the  whole. 
Flashy  Jack 's  no  fool  of  a  writer.  He  told  all  he 
knew,  and  it 's  well  he  knew  nothing  more — he  'd  out 
with  it.  He  's  a  white-livered  sneak,  after  all  that 's 
said  and  done.  I  '11  wring  his  neck  yet  for  him,"  and 
his  face  passed  from  a  look  of  easy  mirth  into  an  ex 
pression  of  deadly  hostility. 

"Hold your  murderous  tongue,  will  you,"  answered 
the  Spaniard,  eyeing  him  with  disgust;  "you've 
done  enough  now  to  raise  a  hurlebulloo.  Let  the  boy 
alone — -he  knows  nothing,  and  can  tell  nothing ;  and  as 
for  that  Maggie,  you  see  how  it  is,  you  'd  better  keep 
out  of  that  girl's  way.  You  and  the  rest  of  you  get 
steeped  in  your  d — d  cups,  and  then  you  let  out  fast 
as  an  old  sieve.  Keep  out  of  sight  all  of  you,  and 


THE    KENDEZVOUS.  259 

sliip  for  Europe,  Australia,  California,  anywhere, 
and  that  quick  too,  or  I  '11  help  you  to  a  worse  place. 
Mind,  I  mean  it;"  and  he  knocked  on  the  table  for  a 
waiter,  and  ordered  more  refreshments,  while  his  com 
panion  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  evidently  in 
timidated  by  the  threat ;  but  his  head  was  leaned  on 
his  hand,  his  elbow  on  the  table,  so  that  the  expression 
of  his  face  was  hidden. 

"  Cosmello,  I  know  your  money,  and  your  position 
as  a  gentleman,  protects  you.  I  know  we  are  all  in 
your  power, — we  have  been  the  tools,  have  borne  the 
brunt,  and  faced  the  law,  while  you  have  kept  your 
hands  untouched  ;  but  move  a  step  to  give  us  up,  one 
of  us,  and  your  life  is  n't  worth  that,"  and  he  snapped 
his  thumb  and  finger. 

Cosmello  did  not  change  countenance  ;  he  retained 
the  simple,  dignified  gravity  of  the  Spaniard,  while 
his  companion  uttered  this  threat,  and  then,  passing  a 
package  across  the  table,  he  went  on  : — 

"  There  are  five  thousand  dollars,  the  sum  I  prom 
ised  upon  the  consummation  of  our  enterprise.  You 
have  all  served  me  faithfully.  I  have  never  scrupled 
to  advance  you  money,  whenever  Satan  forgot  his 
own.  "We  are  now  quit." 

The  man  turned  sharply  round,  and  whispered, 
"  May  I  ask  what  you  design  to  do  with  that  girl  ?" 

Cosmello's  face  grew  black  with  suppressed  rage. 


260  THE    NEWSBOY. 

He  made  no  answer  to  the  question,  but  asfe<jd  in  turn 
where  he  proposed  to  go. 

"  I  remain  in  New  York.  I  know  of  no  safer 
place,  where  a  man  may  play  the  rascal,  and  yet  be 
accepted  as  a  distinguished  foreigner.  I  shall  don  a 
Spanish  cloak,  and  play  the  hidalgo ;"  so  saying,  he 
poised  his  hat  daintily  upon  his  head,  uttered  "  Adios," 
and  went  down  the  saloon. 

This  time  he  crossed  directly  to  the  lobby  of  the 
Broadway  Theatre,  looked  around  carelessly,  and  then 
making  his  egress  by  a  different  door  from  the  one  he 
entered,  he  came  out  with  a  group  that  always  leave 
the  house  at  the  termination  of  the  first  piece.  He 
turned  the  corner,  and  went  rapidly  down  Anthony 
street,  applied  a  night-key  to  a  door,  and  went 
up  stairs.  A  man  was  lying  on  the  bed  wrapped 
in  a  sheet,  apparently  waiting  for  him,  for  the  new 
comer  began  to  disrobe  himself,  while  the  other  put 
on  the  garments  thus  taken  off. 

"He's  waiting  for  you  at  Thompson's — best  be 
quick.  Here  's  mine  (showing  the  package).  I'll  say 
that  for  him,  he  's  toe'd  the  line  like  a  gentleman.  I 
do  believe  that  Spaniard  is  the  very  Satan  himself.  He 
never  laughs,  never  hurries,  has  no  more  feeling  than 
that  stove,  and  I  believe  he  'd  wait  the  day  of  judg 
ment  but  he  'd  have  his  revenge.  Dinsmoor  crossed 
him  years  ago,  and  he 's  kept  a  watch  ever  since  for  a 


THE    RENDEZVOUS.  261 

chance  at  him.  Blast  me  if  I  had  n't  a  mind  to  take 
off  the  girl  on  my  own  hook." 

"  How  did  you  do  it,  Skillings?"  asked  the  other, 
giving  the  cravat  a  jaunty  touch  at  the  bit  of  cracked 
dirty  looking-glass  stuck  against  the  wall. 

"  Hurry  up  the  cakes,"  shouted  the  other  ;  "  we  've 
no  time  for  long  yarns.  That  Spaniard 's  like  a  big  boa- 
constrictor,  such  as  I  've  seen  out  in  South  America, 
viewing  a  deer  he  's  got  under  his  eye,  and  the  poor 
thing  shivering,  and  bleating,  and  sobbing,  but  can't 
get  away.  I  tell  you  I  looked  right  into  them  black 
eyes  of  his,  and  I  saw  h — 1  there,  or  there  never  was 
one.  You  'd  better  get  your  money,  and  keep  out  of 
his  fangs." 

"  Au  revoir,"  lisped  the  other,  drawing  on  gloves, 
and  projecting  his  hips  right  and  left  like  a  fashion 
able  woman.  He  left  the  room,  and  Skillings  locked 
and  bolted  the  door  after  him. 

Shortly  after  Cosmello,  who  sat  reading  the  papers 
as  we  have  seen,  nodded  to  apparently  the  same  indi 
vidual,  who  had  gone  out  for  some  purpose  and  re 
turned  ;  but  a  close  observer  would  have  seen  that  the 
fit  of  the  garments  was  much  closer  than  a  half  an  hour 
previous,  and  now  the  man  carried  the  right  hand 
in  his  bosom,  and  the  cane  in  the  left.  The  Spaniard 
made  no  comments  at  the  change,  although  the  hand 
now  laid  upon  the  table  had  lost  several  of  its  fingers. 


262  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Advise  Skillings  to  leave  the  country,"  he  at 
length  said,  at  the  same  time  stretching  a  leg  over  an 
unoccupied  chair  ;  "  and  you  too,  Yan  Dam,  the  soon 
er  you  leave  the  better  for  you." 

The  man  lifted  up  his  head  from  the  straw  in  his 
mouth,  and  answered  by  asking,  "  You  mean  to  keep 
here  then?" 

The  other  deigned  no  reply,  but  pushed  two  packa 
ges  across  the  table  this  time. 

"  One  for  Pete  ?"  asked  Yan  Dam,  clutching  at  the 
rolls  with  an  eager  manner  that  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  easy,  nonchalant  air  of  the  former  occupant 
of  the  tailor's  fit. 

"  We  have  no  further  need  of  one  another,"  re 
plied  Cosmello  ;  "  my  work  is  done." 

"  And  you  can  finish  up  your  own  deviltry,"  mut 
tered  the  other  between  his  teeth. 

The  Spaniard's  eyes  rested  upon  the  speaker  with  a, 
steady,  snake-like  gaze  that  made  him  think  of  Skil 
lings'  figure  of  a  boa- constrictor,  and  his  eyes  fell 
under  the  look.  He  knew  the  master-look,  as  we  all 
do  when  we  meet  it,  the  good  and  the  bad. 

Presently  the  two  men  walked  slowly  down  the 
saloon.  Cosmello  stopped  at  the  clerk's  desk  and 
paid  for  the  bits  of  ivory  called  "  checks,"  showing 
the  price  of  his  entertainment,  lighted  a  segar  by  the 
door  and  went  dut.  At  the  threshold,  he  nodded  to 


THE    EENDEZVOUS.  263 

his  companion,  and  was  about  to  pass  on  when  he  ob 
served  the  other  still  kept  at  his  side. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  thinking  its  hard  parting  company  after  so 
long  an  acquaintance,"  answered  Van  Dam. 

The  Spaniard  replied,  "  You  have  been  two  too 
many  for  me.  Had  I  trusted  Skillings  alone,  it  had 
been  better." 

"  Skillings  couldn't  a  done  it,"  muttered  the  other, 
"  and  you  know  it.  Skillings  is  flighty  and  needed 
somebody  black,  and  hard  as  a  rock,  to  keep  him  up 
to  the  mark ;  and  that  you  've  had  in  Pete  and  me." 

A  police  officer  walked  slowly  past  them  as  if  try 
ing  to  listen  to  their  conversation,  and  the  Spaniard 
now  took  out  a  cigar  from  his  case,  touched  it  to  the 
tip  of  the  one  he  had  lighted  at  Thompson's  saloon, 
and  presented  it  to  his  companion. 

"  This  is  the  last  then !"  ejaculated  Van  Dam,  cross 
ing  over  to  Anthony  street.  "  Blast  the  fellow,  he 
holds  me  with  a  eort  of  liking  after  all,  and  he  pays 
like  a  prince.  I  '11  lay  off  awhile,  Pete  and  I,  on  the 
strength  of  this — jine  the  Filibusters,  or  go  slave- 
catching.  New  York 's  a  growin'  too  hot  for  the  likes 
of  us." 

Had  the  police  officer  heard  all  that  passed  be 
tween  Cosmello  and  his  companion  distinctly,  he  would 
have  followed  them ;  but  as  it  was,  he  had  no  such 


264  THE    NEWSBOY. 

pretext ;  or  had  Pete  with  the  distorted  eye  been  of 
the  party,  he  would  have'  done  so,  for  somehow  the 
instincts  of  man,  based  originally  upon  the  senti 
ment  of  the  beautiful,  and  still  preserving  something 
of  their  pristine  insight,  will  associate  moral  obliquity 
with  physical  distortion.  Even  Shakspeare,  true  to 
what  is  in  man  as  man,  painted  the  cruel,  evil-pas 
sioned  Eichard  as  deformed  in  person  from  his  birth, 
while  the  coldly-intellectual  lago,  unimpressed  by 
ambition  of  the  higher  kind,  brooding  with  Satanic 
malice  over  imaginary  or  real  wrongs,  is  left  to  the 
imagination  of  the  reader  to  paint  as  thin  of  lip, 
meagre  in  person,  full  in  the  forehead,  and  sallow  of 
blood.  In  this  way  Shakspeare  shows  his  superiority 
to  the  whole  brood  of  romance  writers  who  go  counter 
to  our  instincts.  These  persons  try  to  overcome  the  re 
pugnance  of  the  child  to  a  reptile,  by  mawkishly  tell 
ing  him,  "  God  made  it,  and  he  must  n't  hate  it."  So 
he  did  make  it,  to  correspond  to  what  is  vile,  and  re 
volting,  and  hateful  in  depraved  man ;  and  the  child 
who  can  be  brought  to  endure  the  toad,  the  spider,  or 
the  viper,  will  love  the  vices  which  they  represent. 
Faugh !  let  them  hate  the  toads,  and  the  spiders,  and 
vipers  of  every  kind. 


XXXVII. 

(&\t  Spnnrfr  in  Ihto  |0rL 

MEN  who  liave  an  evil  work  to  do  never  seek  its 
perpetration  amid  the  solemn  haunts  of  nature.  True, 
crimes  are  committed  there,  but  only  by  the  brutally 
depraved,  or  those  whom  a  necessity  for  evil  has  left 
them  no  choice  of  locality.  Nature  has  her  calm, 
holy  look  of  rebuke,  deterring  crime.  She  has  her 
ancient  Pans,  and  Satyrs,  and  Fawns,  peering  amid  the 
boles  of  stately  trees,  and  gliding  along  cool  valleys 
and  leafy  glades.  Great,  echoing  voices  break  her  aw 
ful  silence ;  the  rustling  of  her  leaves  have  a  solemn 
import,  the  swaying  of  her  branches  are  tokens  of 
warning,  the  stately  tread  of  the  wild  beast  mocks  the 
beast-like  aspect  of  the  intruder,  and  the  upspringing 
bird  is  a  messenger  flying  heavenward  with  the  tale, 
while  the  hooting  night-owl  screams  forth  in  detesta 
tion,  and  with  horrible  cries  of  a  retribution.  No,  no, 
God  is  in  the  woods,  and  go  not  there  with  the  work 

12 


266  THE    NEWSBOY. 

of  demons ;  go  to  the  city,  where  every  face  is  marked 
with  forbidden  ]ongings  for  deadly  knowledge,  and 
the  brow  is  stamped  with  the  seal  of  Cain  ;  go  there 
where  man  is,  and  not  God,  where  the  idea  is  pre 
served  only  by  stately  churches,  closed  six  days  in 
seven,  because  men  do  not  like  to  retain  God  in  their 
hearts,  but  all  through  the  six  days  the  incarnate  Sa 
tan  goes  up  and  down  unrebuked. 

Society  is  a  stagnant,  pestilential  pool,  thinly  coated 
with  reeds  and  tall,  rank  weeds,  upon  which  man  treads 
warily.  He  does  n't  like  to  sink  his  foot  within  lest 
he  expose  his  own  rottenness  and  that  of  his  neigh 
bor,  and  so  all  tread  softly,  knowing  that  while  he 
hides  his  neighbor's  weak  spot  he  covers  his  own  also. 
At  some  time,  however,  one  less  cautious  than  the 
rest,  exposes  his  part  of  the  pool,  and  then  there  is  a 
hue  and  cry.  Then  respectability  is  up  in  arms ;  then 
men  denounce,  and  condemn,  and  tell  of  the  good  of 
society,  and  the  necessity  of  an  example  to  deter  oth 
ers  from  a  like  exposure.  Then  editors  publish  the 
fall  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  airing  their  dull  pens 
with  virtuous  maxims,  and  wise  old  saws  and  warn 
ings.  In  their  sudden  religion  they  talk  of  the  Bible, 
and  the  church,  and  the  rising  generation.  Oh  this 
paper  piety,  this  tohguey  virtue,  is  a  thing  to  make  the 
fiends  laugh,  for  it  sets  every  sinner,  man  and  woman, 
black  and  white,  to  multiplying  guards  and  cautions, 


THE    SPANIARD    IN    NEW  YORK.      267 

so  that  the  pool  may  be  better  bridged,  and  they  with 
their  secret  vices  and  smoothly-covered  sins  may  pass  it 
over  with  an  easy,  decorous  footing.  Then  the  profli 
gate  oils  his  tongue  and  gives  forth  psalms,  and 
straightens  his  cravat,  and  rents  his  pew  ;  then  the 
defaulter  multiplies  his  checks  and  balances,  and  keeps 
a  sharp  look  out,  so  that  only  suspicion  looks  him  in 
the  face,  but  not  fact ;  then  the  false  husband  looks 
well  to  his  night-key,  and  grows  munificent  to  the 
wife,  wheedles  her  with  shows,  and  tickles  her  with 
finery ;  then  the  treacherous  wife  walks  haughtily, 
and  studies  conventionalities,  and  lolls  in  her  carriage, 
and  scatters  her  malaria,  but  does  not  violate  the  rules. 
Ah !  society  is  a  nicely-adjusted  balance,  and  it  is 
very  well  that  the  holder  of  the  scales  is  blind  of 
sight. 

Juan  Cosmello,  the  Spaniard  of  whom  we  have 
before  spoken,  was  elegant  and  accomplished;  his 
wealth  entitled  him  to  the  highest  rank,  and  our  re 
publicans  were  not  slow  in  their  estimate  of  merits 
based  upon  such  a  foundation.  His  box  at  the  Post 
Office  showed  a  vast  number  of  letters  penned  by 
dainty  dames,  inviting  him  to  interviews,  and  lauding 
his  attractions ;  but  Cosmello  was  not  gallant.  He  had 
no  vices.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  books,  fond 
of  the  ideal  in  woman,  and  artistic  in  all  his  tastes  and 
pleasures.  He  had  no  penchant  for  low  amours,  or 


268  THE   NEWSBOY. 

exciting  intrigues.  The  wealthy  parvenue  women 
who  ride  up  and  down  Broadway,  their  wantonness 
shielded  by  the  respectability  and  wealth  of  their 
pliant  husbands,  filled  him  with  disgust.  New  York 
has  its  ten  thousands  of  educated  foreigners,  admitted 
freely  into  the  houses  of  our  rich  citizens.  These 
have  no  ostensible  means  of  support ;  and  could  cer 
tain  items,  expended  by  wives  and  daughters,  be  named 
openly  in  the  exchequer  of  husbands  and  fathers,  they 
would  carry  a  strange  import  with  them.  But  that  is 
nothing  to  you  or  me,  dear  reader ;  these  things  are  a 
part  of  the  dead  pool  of  what  is  called  "good  so 
ciety,"  "  upper  tendom,"  and  we  wont  put  our  foot 
into  it. 

Cosmello  of  course  was  Catholic,  and  devout  also. 
The  Spaniard  always  is.  Indeed,  he  paid  the  priest  so 
well  that  he  spared  him  confession,  or  allowed  the  peni* 
tent  to  enumerate  numberless  peccadillos  that  might 
shame  a  green  girl,  but  are  unknown  to  the  kind  of  man 
represented  in  Don  Cosmello.  While  he  confessed  to 
these  things,  he  paid  for  masses  that  would  exonerate 
him  from  the  most  atrocious  crimes.  He  was  a  Cu 
ban  by  birth,  where  he  still  held  vast  estates,  and 
owned  more  than^  a  thousand  negroes.  He  was  ail 
only  child,  and  upon  the  death  of  his  father  he  had 
chosen,  from  reasons  of  his  own  in  part,  which  the 
sequel  will  illustrate,  as  well  as  for  the  gratification  of 


THE    SPANIARD    IN   NEW   YORK.      269 

his  taste,  to  live  in  New  York,  and  entrust  the  manage 
ment  of  his  plantations  to  an  agent,  whose  accounts, 
and  whose  movements  he  watched  with  that  cupidity 
and  jealousy  which  the  blood  of  the  Spaniard  only 
can  fully  exhibit. 

He  had  lived  some  five  or  six  years  in  Abingdon 
Square,  the  front  windows  of  his  house  looking  out 
upon  the  paved,  broad,  dusty  thoroughfare,  relieved 
by  a  little  triangle  of  green,  ornamented  with  flowers 
and  made  attractive  with  shrubbery  kept  scrupulously 
neat,  and  vigorous  in  growth.  The  rear  was  shut  in 
by  green  blinds  hung  from  the  top  in  the  Venetian 
manner.  Here,  stretched  at  length  on  bamboo  chairs 
and  lounges,  surrounded  by  vines  and  tropical  plants 
brought,  frequently,  from  Cuba,  Cosmello  literally 
smoked  away  the  summer  months.  Habited  in  white 
linens,  such  as  the  planters  use  in  the  tropics,  over 
which  was  thrown  dressing  gowns  of  brocade,  his  feet 
cased  in  Spanish  slippers,  ornamented  with  gold  and 
silver,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  his  eyes  bent  upon  a 
book,  or  idly  watching  the  leaves  of  the  vine  flicker 
ing  tremulous  in  the  sunshine,  you  could  conceive 
nothing  in  the  universe  offering  a  more  striking  con 
trast  in  character  to  the  Yankee  than  the  one  thus  af 
forded.  You  would  have  thought  the  Senor  a  model 
of  piety  and  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  filial  duty  that  induced  him  to  go  every  Sunday 


270  THE    NEWSBOY. 

morning  to  mass  with  his  saint-like  mother,  the  Dona 
Isabella. 

Dona  Isabella  was  evidently  the  original  after 
whom  was  modelled  the  son,  Juan.  Under  the  lace 
veil  of  the  former  looked  out  the  same  black,  cruel 
eyes,  and  time  had  evidently  sharpened  up  and  ex 
aggerated  the  peculiarity  of  nose  to  which  we  have 
before  alluded.  The  Dona's  face  was  colorless  but 
clear,  for  she  scorned  to  paint ;  her  hair  was  without  a 
shade  of  white,  long,  black  and  abundant,  so  much  so 
that  it  seemed  to  be  always  ready  to  fall  about  her 
stately  neck,  as  if  its  proud  meshes  disliked  a  formal 
fixture.  She  was  always  habited  in  black,  with  orna 
ments  of  jet,  except  a  diamond  cross  of  inestimable 
value,  which  slept  upon  her  bosom.  Her  arms  were 
plump,  but  the  little  hand  looked  shrivelled  and  old, 
and  that  told  the  whole  story  of  age,  quite  as  much 
as  the  quietude  of  her  high  Spanish  blood.  "What 
ever  might  have  been  her  former  life,  however  numer- 
mous  the  sins  registered  or  effaced  upon  the  book  of 
memory,  her  many  prayers  and  abundant  gifts  to  the 
church  one  would  think  might  fairly  entitle  her  to  an 
entire  obliteration,  for  she  was  now  a  devotee  of  the 
most  approved  kind. 

The  Spanish  woman  does  not  affiliate  at  all  with 
those  of  Yankee-land.  She  treats  the  latter  with  a 
haughty  reserve  which  at  once  precludes  all  approach 


THE    SPANIARD    IN    NEW  YORK.      271 

to  that  familiar  good-will,  or  ill-will,  so  uppermost  in 
our  Americans  of  the  sex.  Madam  Cosmello,  as  she 
was  called  in  the  neighborhood,  did  not  like  America 
in  the  least,  and  so  she  lived  from  year  to  year,  in  the 
vain  hope  that  Juan  would  return  to  his  estates  in 
Cuba.  For  this  reason  the  whole  upper  part  of  the 
house  was  filled  with  innumerable  boxes,  and  pack 
ages  never  opened,  but  kept  ready  for  re-shipment 
when  the  welcome  time  of  return  should  have  arrived. 
She  never  penetrated  at  all  to  this  region.  She  knew 
little  and  cared  little  for  the  vast  wealth  supposed  to 
be  contained  there.  She  had  an  old  black  woman, 
who  was  her  especial  attendant,  who  passed  whole 
hours  daily  in  combing  and  brushing  the  Dona's 
hair,  in  bracing  and  unbracing  jewellery,  folds,  clasps, 
and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  an  indolent,  luxurious 
woman's  attire.  She  always  ushered  in  the  priest  to 
confess  Madam,  and  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door  till 
he  came  out,  and  did  n't  think  it  strange  that  thfc  priest 
was  young,  and  staid  long  to  shrive  so  holy  a  dame. 
The  rest  of  the  household  consisted  of  an  old  man, 
the  counterpart  of  the  old  black  woman,  who  likewise 
was  a  mere  machine  in  the  hands  of  his  master.  The 
neighbors  knew  that  these  negroes  were  slaves,  and 
did  not  hesitate  to  inform  them  that  they  might  be 
free  in  this  country,  where  everything  is  acknowl 
edged  to  be  free  but  public  opinion,  which  is  an  arrant 


272  THE    NEWSBOY. 

slave  to  popular  whim.  The  old  black  man  and  his 
wife  grinned,  listened  with  a  quick,  monkey  kind  of 
glee,  and  repeated  with  a  short,  quick  laugh — 

"  Free?  what  am  him?"  and  then  went  on  to  cook, 
and  wash,  and  laid  down  to  sleep  utterly  unconscious 
that  they  lacked  man's  best  earthly  boon,  the  right  to 
himself. 

We  have  spoken  of  one  other  member  of  the 
household.  The  woman  with  the  wen,  whose  position 
in  the  family  it  might  be  difficult  to  divine.  Madam 
Cosmello  saw  no  company,  unless  it  might  be  upon 
the  occasion  of  an  emigration  of  one  of  their  old 
neighbors  to  the  country,  when  a  stately  Spanish  hos 
pitality  might  be  extended  for  a  few  weeks  only. 
The  house  was  richly  furnished — that  is,  the  halls, 
dining-rooms,  parlors,  and  the  rooms  of  the  mother  and 
son.  Thus  far  Doiia  Isabella  superintended  herself, 
and  of  course  everything  was  rich,  massive,  and  lux 
urious,  yet  withal  there  was  an  obscure,  gloomy  look, 
inseparable  from  the  Spaniard.  The  rest  of  the  house, 
what  was  in  it,  either  in  garret  or  cellar,  who  or  what 
came  and  went,  she  neither  knew  nor  cared.  They 
kept  a  carriage  and  horses,  but  as  there  was  no  stable 
attached  to  the  premises,  these  were  boarded  out  at  the 
livery  stable,  and  brought  to  the  house  at  certain 
hours  daily  for  the  Dona  to  take  an  airing,  and  at 
other  times  as  Cosmello  required. 


THE    SPANIARD    IN    NEW  YORK.      273 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  habits  of  the  son, 
none  of  the  men  whom  we  have  seen  were  ever  ad 
mitted  under  the  roof,  and  they  in  fact  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  their  employer,  if  we  except  the  one  called 
Skillings,  who  had  been  serviceable  to  him  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  It  will  be  seen  that  he  gave  them  a  stipu 
lated  task  to  perform  ;  that  he  trained  them  years  to 
the  task ;  that  he  kept  them  in  his  pay  year  by  year, 
that  they  might  be  ready  to  perform  it,  and  yet  he 
kept  himself  utterly,  and  entirely  apart  from  them, 
and  that  to  such  a  degree  that  they  could  not  expose 
him  without  criminating  themselves  in  the  deadliest 
manner ;  indeed,  they  were  never  quite  certain  that 
a  crime  had  been  committed,  except  as  they  coupled 
the  surveillance  they  had  established  about  Mr.  Dins- 
moor's  house  with  the  disappearance  of  his  child,  as 
set  forth  in  the  papers  of  the  day. 

It  was  true  Skillings  had  met  Cosmello  carrying 
an  object  in  his  arms,  enveloped  in  a  cloak,  which  he 
had  delivered  into  his  own,  with  directions  at  the 
same  time  to  proceed  onward,  down  an  unfrequented 
street  in  the  direction  of  the  North  Kiver.  Here  a 
carriage  had  stopped  and  he  laid  the  burden  in  the 
bottom  of  the  carriage.  He  knew  nothing  more,  and 
the  two  brothers  Yan  Dam  knew  less  except  by  sur 
mise,  as  they  were  only  appointed  to  watch  night 
after  night  in  case  they  should  be  called  upon.  Peter, 

12* 


274  THE   NEWSBOY. 

the  driver,  knew  nothing  at  all.  He  had  often  taken 
mysterious  journeys,  and  conveyed  mysterious  pack 
ages,  but  as  the  Spaniard  paid'  him  liberally  on  these 
and  all  other  occasions,  he  did  n't  feel  called  upon  to 
spoil  his  own  trade  by  saying  the  package  on  this 
particular  night  was  by  no  means  a  quiet  one ;  that  it 
struggled  as  if  convulsed,  though  it  gave  out  no  audi 
ble  sound.  It  was  quite  still,  however,  when  the 
woman  with  the  wen  came  out  and  took  it  into  the 
basement  door,  and  proceeded  with  it  to  one  of  the 
arches  of  the  cellar ;  he  saw  she  went  down  cellar 
with  it,  for  the  light  came  up  through  the  gratings  of 
the  sidewalk.  He  heard  nothing,  however. 

I  wonder  that  poets,  and  philosophers,  and  philan 
thropists,  (I  like  this  alliteration,)  do  not  try  more  to 
accumulate  money.  They  lack  but  this  to  enable 
them  to  rule  the  world.  Gold  is  the  god  of  it ;  only 
put  gold  into  good  hands,  and  good  work  can  be 
done  with  it,  aye,  and  it  can  be  shown  how  filthy 
lucre  is  in  filthy  hands.  The  man  who  has  an  ill 
work  to  do  need  n't  look  far  for  his  tools.  Let  him 
watch  the  shambling  wretch  who  frequents  the  pave, 
his  open  hands  dangling  beside  him,  and  these  hands 
will  clasp  readily  over  the  bribe,  and  do  the  work. 
Why  not  induce  him  by  gold  to  a  good  rather  than 
an  evil  work  ? 


XXXVIII. 

Cast  0ut  0f 


THE  thread  of  our  story  must  now  retrograde 
awhile  to  the  early  years  of  the  parties.  Juan  Marcou 
had  been  educated  at  one  of  the  academies  in  Maine, 
at  which  place  he  met  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  a  student  at  the 
same  institution.  It  is  well  known  that  thirty  or 
forty  years  before  our  story,  the  State  of  Maine  car 
ried  on  an  extensive  commerce  with  the  island  of 
Cuba.  The  intelligent  ship-masters  of  that  maritime 
State  were  admitted  on  terms  of  easy  familiarity  with 
the  planters  of  the  island,  and  hence  their  sons  were 
often  sent  over  to  this  country  for  the  purposes  of 
education.  Young  Marcou  was  one  of  the  number. 
He  went  through  his  academic  course  there,  and  was 
thence  admitted  to  the  higher  privileges  of  the  col 
lege.  In  each,  young  Dinsmoor  was  his  rival.  The 
Spaniard,  brilliant  as  he  really  was,  found  himself 
thrown  into  the  back-ground  by  the  clear,  penetrat- 


276  TIIE    NEWSBOY. 

ing,  active  intellect  of  his  compeer.  Besides  this, 
Dinsmoor  had  a  frank  joyousness,  a  ready  repartee, 
and  confidence  in  his  own  abilities  that  made  him  in 
different  to  mere  success,  and  rendered  him  not  only  a 
favorite  in  his  class,  but  a  favorite  also  wherever  he 
appeared.  He  was  one  of  those  children  of  the  light 
upon  whom  the  kindly  stars  beam  benignly,  and  who 
from  the  first  are  designed  to  achieve  the  utmost  of 
their  desires.  He  was  not  wealthy — indeed  his  re 
sources  were  so  limited  in  kind  that  he  "taught 
school  "  in  the  periods  of  vacation  to  eke  out  the  ex 
penses  of  education.  It  had  been  the  dear  wish  of  his 
mother's  heart  to  see  him  a  "  Preacher  of  the  Gospel," 
as  she  termed  it,  by  which  she  meant  one  duly 
authenticated  to  declaim  from  the  pulpit ;  but  the  good 
sense  of  the  young  man  taught  him  that  there  is 
broad,  manly,  far-reaching  preaching  to  be  done  from 
the  desk  of  the  merchant,  as  well  as  from  the  pulpit 
of  the  church,  and  hence  he  had  served  his  time  as 
clerk,  briefly  as  book-keeper,  and  finally  found  him 
self  one  of  the  most  enterprising  and  successful  of  our 
wealthy  New  York  merchants. 

Marcou,  as  we  have  seen,  was  altogether  the  re 
verse  of  this.  It  is  well  known  that  the  Yankee  char 
acter  contains  all  the  solidity  of  the  English,  com 
bined  with  the  vivacity  of  the  French.  It  is  per 
severing  and  reliable  like  the  German,  solid  and 


CAST    OUT    OF    EDEN.  277 

penetrating  like  the  English,  vivacious  like  the 
French.  The  Spaniard,  on  the  contrary,  uncrossed  by 
any  blood  save  that  of  the  Moors  for  so  many  cen 
turies,  has  become  stereotyped  in  a  few  leading  traits 
which  seem  to  give  a  coloring  to  all  others.  The  old 
Spanish  chivalry  which  once  induced  him  to  shed 
his  blood  for  "his  God,  his  country,  and  his  ladye 
fair,"  has  degenerated  into  a  callous,  obtuse,  jealous 
pride,  as  selfish  as  it  is  irreligious  and  ungallant. 
This  pride  makes  him  imagine  that  all  that  goes  on 
around  him  has  some  reference  to  him  personally,  and 
thus  he  magnifies  himself  a  thousand-fold.  He  is 
morose,  jealous,  egotistic,  unscrupulous,  and  vindic 
tive.  He  is  a  Catholic,  because  that  and  the  Inquisi- 
tiqn  harmonize  best  with  his  own  exaggerated  self- 
love,  and  gratify  best  his  own  spirit  of  revenge  at  the 
presence  of  real  or  imaginary  wrongs. 

To  these  national  traits  of  character,  most  likely  to 
engender  antagonism  between  the  young  men,  was 
finally  added  another  cause,  deeper  and  more  inveter 
ate  in  kind.  Marcou  was,  as  we  have  shown,  handsome 
in  person,  intellectual,  grave,  and  unblemished  in 
reputation ;  the  well-known  heir  also  of  vast  estates, 
while  young  Dinsmoor  had  his  fortune  to  carve  with 
his  own  hands. 

At  the  house  where  the  two  young  men  boarded 
in  their  college  days,  was  a  girl,  just  merging  into 


278  THE   NEWSBOY. 

womanhood,  of  such,  rare  and  feminine  loveliness, 
that  each  found  himself  her  admirer,  deeply  and  fer 
vently,  before  he  was  aware  of  more  than  a  common 
interest.  But  to  see  Fannie  Lyndsey  was  to  love  her, 
just  as  it  is  impossible  to  refrain  from  loving  what  is 
in  itself  all  loveliness.  We  must  love  angels,  and  al 
low  angels  to  follow  their  own  willing,  strive  to  gain 
say  as  we  choose.  The  whole  nature  of  Fannie  was 
so  exquisitely  toned,  from  the  low  rich  flow  of  her 
voice  to  the  soft  wave  of  her  yellow  hair,  tha*t  she 
seemed  a  fair  instrument  giving  out  pure  harmonies. 
She  was  devoid  of  every  species  of  affectation,  for 
where  all  truth  is  embodied  in  a  womanly  shape,  these 
little  fibbings  of  vanity  are  out  of  place.  "Where  a 
woman  is  in  herself  lovely  she  needs  no  pretences,  and 
she  may  well  leave  seeming  for  those  who  lack  the  real. 
If  you  saw  Fannie,  with  her  grave,  earnest  face 
bent  over  a  book,  her  pale  brown  hair,  so  golden  in 
the  light,  done  up  in  any  simple  knot,  the  clear  sweep 
of  her  eyebrows  denned  by  a  line  of  black,  and  long 
black  lashes  brooding  over  her  eyes,  you  would  be 
puzzled  to  guess  the  color  of  them;  for  the  hair 
intimated  blue,  and  the  eyebrows  black.  But  speak 
to  her,  and  the  face  so  lately  grave,  "  brightened  all 
over  "  with  smiles,  not  dimples,  for  she  did  not  be 
long  to  the  coquette  class,  but  clear,  rippling,  child 
like  smiles,  and  her  candid  eyes  turned  upward  to 


CAST    OUT    OF    EDEN.  279 

your  face,  were  neither  black,  nor  blue,  but  a  soft, 
tender  brown  ;  and  as  you  could  not  help  looking  ad 
miration,  the  blue  veins  of  her  softly-shaded  temples, 
and  the  bluer  ones  that  threaded  her  neck  and  rounded 
shoulders,  were  veiled  by  a  faint  tinge  of  rose,  deepen 
ing  more  and  more  if  you  continued  to  gaze,  till  her 
eyes,  but  not  her  head,  lowered  upon  the  book,  and  she 
touched  her  red  lips  slightly  with  her  tongue,  and  put 
on  a  sort  of  resigned  expression. 

It  was  so  sweet,  so  girlish  a  look,  that  the  young 
men  were  willing  to  bring  her  books  to  read,  and  then 
steal  upon  her  unawares  for  the  sake  of  receiving  it ; 
and  as  Fannie  never  suspected  the  motive,  her  pure 
blood  came  and  went,  with  the  breathings  of  her  pure 
soul,  in  total  unconsciousness.  Fannie  was  no 
scholar.  She  read  what  pleased  her,  and  talked 
naively,  and  pleasantly  about  it,  careless  whether  she 
talked  wisely  or  well.  She  did  not  affect  the  critic, 
but  somehow  the  womanly  instincts  of  Fannie  always 
reached  something  clearer,  and  better,  than  her  more 
profound  masculine  friends  had  thought.  So  her 
opinions  and  judgments  were  waited  for  with  interest 
always,  for  it  was  plain  to  see  that  all  she  thus  uttered 
sprang  from  her  own  consciousness,  underived  either 
from  books  or  observation. 

To  Marcou,  accustomed  to  the  large,  black  eyes, 
and  swimming  movements  of  the  Spanish  beauties, 


280  THE    NEWSBOY. 

with  their  fiery  passions  and  vindictive  jealousies, 
Fannie  was  a  perpetual  revelation  of  pure,  heavenly 
beauty.  She  calmed  his  excitable  nature,  soothed  his 
dark,  unbridled  passions,  and  lured  him  like  a  pleas 
ant  harmony  out  into  ideal  paths.  He  loved  her 
deeply  and  reverently — far  more  deeply,  far  more 
reverently  than  Dinsmoor  loved.  She  was  to  him  the 
bright  particular  star  of  his  destiny.  Other  stars 
had  gleamed  upon  his  horizon,  for  the  warmer  tem 
perament  of  his  people  had  given  him  experiences 
unknown  to  the  American  youth ;  but  these  had  failed 
to  fix  his  wayward,  haughty  heart,  and  now  they  all 
waned  before  the  pure  lustre  of  this  young  star  of  the 
east.  At  night  he  stood  beneath  her  window,  the 
moon  upon  his  upturned  brow,  and  sang  in  a  clear, 
manly  voice  the  songs  of  his  country  to  the  sound  of 
his  guitar.  Soft  impassioned  melodies  he  sang  from 
the  depths  of  his  own  heart,  and  Fannie  listened  and 
wept,  and  wept  and  listened.  Beautiful  flowers  were 
laid  upon  her  table,  rare  fruits,  and  a  bird,  so  trained 
that  he  whistled  clearly  a  Troubadour  song,  the  very 
utterance  of  the  divine  passion  of  love,  hung  at  her 
window,  the  gift  of  Marcou.  Alas !  the  fair  child 
did  n't  know  the  usages  of  a  more  cultivated  people — 
she  did  n't  know  that  to  accept  the  gift  was  to  justify 
the  love  by  which  it  was  prompted. 

Did  Fannie  love  the  youth  ?     Let  woman  answer, 


CAST   OUT    OF    EDEN.  281 

woman  whose  wayward  heart  holds  so  many  tenants — • 
woman  to  whom  love  is  an  easy  fancy,  not  a  deep, 
absorbing  passion.  When  Marcou  knelt  at  her  feet,  in 
all  the  fervor  of  his  poetic  nature,  he  seemed  to  her 
like  something  far  off  and  imaginary — like  something 
visionary  and  ideal,  such  as  she  read  of  in  books.  He 
lifted  her  out  of  herself,  and  she  became  an  honored 
Spanish  lady,  leaning  from  her  balcony,  worshipped 
of  a  gallant  knight,  who  laid  poetry,  passion,  wealth, 
worship  at  her  feet.  Dreams — fervent,  beautiful  dreams 
lapped  her  in  fairy  Elysium,  and  she  was  no  longer 
the  simple  Yankee  girl,  with  her  domestic  instincts, 
and  little  round  of  every-day  duties.  With  her  hand 
clasped  in  that  of  her  lover,  she  wandered  along  the 
beautiful  waters  of  the  Androscoggin,  listening  to  the 
legendary  tales  of  the  Moorish  conquerors  of  Spain, 
(for  Marcou  boasted  of  the  old  Moorish  and  Castilian 
blood  in  his  veins,)  joining  her  sweet  voice  to  his  and 
the  music  of  his  guitar,  till  the  tears  gushed  to  her 
eyes,  and  her  whole  soul  responded  to  something  she 
knew  not  what  of  happiness.  Marcou,  chivalric  and 
generous,  worshipped  her  as  he  would  the  impersona 
tion  of  Mary  the  Virgin,  for  this  was  to  him  his  para- 
disal  era,  one  to  which  he  looked  back  as  the  first  pair 
looked  back  upon  their  lost  Eden. 

Blame  not  poor  Fannie.     The  Yankee  girl  in  those 
days  knew  so  little  of  the  pure  sentiment  of  love,  so 


282  THE    NEWSBOY. 

little  of  the  acknowledged  rules  of  courtly  acceptance. 
Perhaps  the  next  evening  she  walked  with  George 
Dinsmoor,  who  loved  her  so  purely,  in  such  a  straight 
forward,  manly  way,  that  she  understood  him  at  once. 
He  did  not  talk  romance,  and  little  Fannie  was  not 
really  romantic,  young  as  she  was.  He  sang  songs, 
but  they  were  simple,  affectionate  ones,  illustrative  of 
every-day  feelings,  and  Fannie  felt  no  oppression,  no 
wild,  vague  imaginings,  but  hand  in  hand  with  her 
American  lover,  she  wandered  up  and  down,  now 
tossing  a  pebble  into  the  water,  now  leaping  over  the 
hillocks,  and  now  binding  her  head  with  wild  crimson 
berries,  and  tufts  of  the  arbor- vitse.  Her  gay  laugh 
softened  as  they  sauntered  under  the  tall  branches  of 
the  pines,  swaying,  and  whispering  in  the  twilight. 

Had  the  lovers  looked  around,  they  might  have  seen 
the  young  Spaniard,  leaning  deathly  pale  against  a  tree, 
his  lip  parted,  with  a  streak  of  foam  covering  the  small 
white  teeth,  and  the  perspiration  standing  in  cold 
drops  upon  his  brow.  That  fair,  innocent  girl  was  the 
angel  to  shut  the  gates  of  Eden  against  the  youth,  and 
forever.  Once  he  drew  a  poignard  from  his  bosom 
and  shook  it  in  threatening- wise  at  the  lovers,  and 
then  he  hid  it  again,  and  watched  their  movements. 

That  night  he  encountered  Dinsmoor,  and  whis 
pered  fiercely, 

u  You  have  breathed  upon  the  lily — wear  it  if  you 


CAST    OUT    OF    EDEN.  283 

will.  But  remember  the  vengeance  of  a  Spaniard 
never  sleeps.  Death  cannot,  will  not  come  till  I  have 
my  revenge.  Look  to  it." 

To  poor  Fannie  he  wrote,  "  I  loved  you  with  the 
concentrated  love  of  ages  of  loving  hearts,  and  those 
Spanish  hearts.  I  hate  you  now  in  the  same  propor 
tion.  Go,  miserable  coquette !  Go,  poor,  weak  trifler ! 
I  could  not  love  you  again  if  I  would." 

And  poor  Fannie  read  the  words  with  a  thrill  of 
horror.  She  dared  not  meet  him — and  was  glad  to 
learn  he  had  left  Brunswick  abruptly.  One  thing  was 
observable,  the  beautiful  bird  that  had  been  taught  to 
whistle  its  love-song,  lay  dead  in  the  bottom  of  the 
cage.  It  had  sang  its  last  love-note.  So  had  Marcou. 
And  it  may  be  that  Fannie  also  felt  as  if  a  bright, 
beautiful  chamber  of  her  heart,  wherein  were  sound 
ing  glad  old  anthems  and  sweet  madrigals,  had  been 
suddenly  sealed  up ;  for  she  wept  long,  and  even 
Dinsmoor,  happy  and  joyous  as  was  his  nature,  could 
not  fail  to  weep  with  her.  Which  would  the  mas 
culine  reader  choose,  the  deep,  heart-tear  of  little 
Fannie,  or  the  sweet  confiding  smile  with  which  she 
laid  her  hand  in  that  of  her  American  lover  ? 

And  so  years  and  years  passed  away.  Marcou  re 
turned  to  his  tropical  home — he  travelled  in  Europe — 
but  everywhere  the  image  of  Dinsmoor  clasping  the  hand 
of  the  fair,  tender-hearted  Fannie,  haunted  him  with  its 


284:  THE    NEWSBOY. 

never-sleeping  call  for  vengeance.  He  never  lost  sight 
of  them.  He  knew  all  the  movements  of  Dinsmoor. 
Indeed,  his  agent  was  instructed  to  correspond  with 
him,  as  his  fortunes  advanced,  and  open  commercial  re 
lations  with  him,  always  carefully  concealing  the  name 
of  his  principal ;  and  thus  it  will  be  seen  that  Cosmello 
and  Marcou  were  the  same  person.  He  knew  of  the 
growth  of  Imogen,  of  the  pure,  tranquil  life  of  the 
husband  and  wife,  and  this  served  but  to  augment  his 
hatred ;  for  this  picture  of  a  wife,  content  and  reliable, 
beautiful,  yet  careless  of  admiration,  peaceful  and  se 
cluded,  presented  an  aspect  soothing  to  the  senses ; 
and  such  a  life,  to  which  would  have  been  superadded 
all  the  dreams  of  poetry  and  romance,  all  the  devo 
tion  of  a  heart  left  free  to  only  love,  might  have  been 
his  but  for  the  intervention  of  Dinsmoor ;  and  often 
he  might  be  heard  to  say  to  himself, — 

"  He  shall  drink  of  the  gall  and  wormwood  as  I 
have  drank.  He  shall  know  the  desert  waste  through 
which  I  have  walked.  He  shall  eat  the  Dead  Sea 
apples  as  I  have  eaten." 

And  there  he  stood  morning  and  evening,  watching 
the  windows  of  the  house,  gazing  at  Fannie  as  she 
came  and  went,  now  a  girl  soft  and  winning  as  then, 
— but  he  felt  no  return  of  the  old  tenderness.  His 
self-love  had  been  too  deeply  wounded.  He  saw  that 
the  hearts  of  both  were  concentrated  in  Imogen,  and 


CAST    OUT    OF    EDEN.  285 

through  her  the  blow  should  fall.  Time  had  so  changed 
both  of  the  men  that  Dinsmoor  often  passed  his  dead 
ly  enemy  unconscious  that  he  did  so  ;  and  Fannie,  as 
well  as  Dinsmoor  too,  had  ceased  to  think  of  the  threat 
of  the  Spaniard.  The  years  had  rolled  away  with  them 
so  happily,  that,  as  it  has  been  shown,  neither  dreamed 
of  evil.  So  happy  were  they,  that  pitying  spirits  sent 
a  foreboding  pang  to  usher  in  the  deadly  sequence, 
just  as  they  did  to  the  generous,  loving  Moor,  when 
he  cried, — 

"  If  it  were  now  to  die,  't  were  now  to  be 
Most  happy,  for  my  soul  hath  her  content 
So  absolute,  that  not  another  comfort 
Like  to  this  succeeds  in  unknown  fate  ;" 

and  so  Mr.  Dinsmoor  paused  all  at  once  and  bethought 
himself,  that  in  all  this  he  had  not  acknowledged  and 
blessed  the  good  God  "who  sendeth  songs  in  the 
night-season,"  and  then  he  said,  "  To-morrow,  Fannie  ;" 
and  to-morrow,  when  it  came,  the  song  had  ceased. 


XXXIX. 


THE  plan  of  the  little  fete  given  by  Imogen  to 
her  young  friends  on  the  anniversary  of  her  birth-day, 
was  fully  known  to  Skillings,  who,  having  procured  a 
package  of  pocket-handkerchiefs,  combs,  cheap  em 
broideries,  &c.,  contrived  to  gain  admission  into  the 
kitchen  under  pretence  of  effecting  a  sale  with  the  fe 
male  servants  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor.  Here,  by  -adroit  flat 
teries  and  cajoleries  with  the  girls,  he  not  only  effected 
a  good  trade,  but  learned  particulars  which  he  com 
municated  to  the  Spaniard,  who  now  felt  that  Imogen 
was  of  an  age  and  sufficiently  hardy  to  be  removed. 
Various  plans  had  been  devised  before  now,  but  aban 
doned  one  after  another  as  too  hazardous.  But  this 
night  the  evil  fates  lent  their  aid,  and  the  child,  as  we 
have  seen,  disappeared. 

She  had  scarcely  left  the  car  of  the  Newsboy  when 
she  felt  herself  suddenly  lifted  in  the  arms  of  some 
one  so  silently,  that,  exhilerated  by  the  sports  of  the 


THE    SLAVE,  287 

evening,  and  expecting  every  moment  Charles  Gard 
ner  would  make  his  appearance,  she  imagined  it  was 
his  arms  that  encircled  her,  and  she  struggled  laugh 
ingly  to  be  put  upon  the  ground.  But  when  the  man 
pressed  something  over  her  lips  and  threw  a  cloak 
over  her  head,  she  struggled  more  violently  from  ter 
ror  as  well  as  suffocation. 

"  I  will  not  hurt  you,"  whispered  the  man ;  "  I  will 
carry  you  home,  child,"  and  he  moved  rapidly  on 
ward.  She  knew  nothing  more  till  she  opened  her 
eyes  in  the  gloomy  vault  of  the  cellar,  where  a  wo 
man  was  bathing  her  face  with  water.  She  had,  as  we 
have  shown,  received  a  parcel  from  the  coachman, 
which  Marcou,  in  hurried  words,  had  told  her  to  dis 
pose  of  in  this  way ;  accordingly,  she  laid  the  burden 
down  on  the  floor  of  the  cellar,  went  forward  with 
light  in  hand  and  closed  the  inner  door  opening  upon 
the  grate  in  the  side-walk,  entered  the  vault,  which 
was  partially  used  for  wine,  and  drawing  the  door  to 
after  her,  bolted  it  upon  the  inner  side. 

The  water  revived  the  child,  and  she  drank  it 
eagerly,  looking  all  the  time  into  the  woman's  face, 
who  made  no  attempt  to  speak,  nor  did  she  exhibit 
any  signs  of  sympathy.  Imogen's  dress  and  hair 
were  disarranged,  and  with  intuitive  nicety  she  smooth 
ed  them  with  her  hand  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Let  me  out,  please,"  she  demanded. 


288  THE    NEWSBOY. 

The  woman  laughed  a  scornful  laugh  and  pushed 
her  aside.  Imogen  now  cast  a  glance  around  the  dis 
mal  brick  walls,  and  a  sudden  panic  caused  her  to 
scream  violently.  The  woman  did  not  speak,  but 
caught  her  head  between  her  two  hands  and  thus  held 
her  mouth  confined. 

The  child  struggled  for  liberation,  but  the  woman 
told  her  she  would  not  let  her  go  till  she  promised  to 
be  silent.  She  gave  the  desired  pledge,  and  was  re 
leased. 

"What  am  I  brought  here  for?"  asked  the  deli 
cate  little  creature,  to  whom  unkindness  or  severity 
had  never  before  come. 

"To  die,  perhaps,"  was  the  reply.  "It  doesn't 
much  matter." 

Imogen  still  could  not  realize  her  situation;  it 
looked  a  terrible  dream.  She,  so  tenderly  beloved,  so 
gently  reared,  standing  in  the  presence  of  this  dark, 
fierce  looking  woman,  surrounded  by  cold  brick  walls, 
the  darkness  hardly  obliterated  by  the  dim  waxen 
taper  coil  which  the  woman  held  in  her  hand  ;  every 
thing  had  so  much  unreal  about  it,  that  her  little  mind 
went  back  to  the  stories  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  about 
caves,  and  genii,'  and  sorceresses,  and  she  felt  as  if 
suddenly  involved  in  mazes  of  the  kind  which  would 
soon  disappear  and  reveal  something  sweet  and  beauti 
ful,  for  she  was  of  a  poetic,  hopeful  make,  and  could 


THE    SLAVE.  289 

not  well  receive  suffering  into  her  experience.  Ac 
cordingly  she  approached  the  woman,  and  bursting 
into  tears,  said, 

"  Dear,  kind  lady,  carry  me  home,  please.  I  'm 
such  a  little  girl  it  could  n't  do  any  good  to  kill  me. 
Everybody  loves  me,  and  papa  and  mamma  will  break 
their  hearts  if  I  don't  go  back." 

This  sweet  childish  appeal  lost  its  effect.  The 
woman  pushed  her  aside  and  listened  at  the  door ;  she 
spoke  through  the  key-hole  a  few  words  in  Spanish, 
and  then  turned  to  Imogen,  who  was  now  weeping 
bitterly.  She  held  up  her  finger,  "Whist,  whist  1" 
she  uttered  in  a  threatening  voice. 

"  'Now  mark  me — 'do  you  see  this  dirk  ?  well  I 
shall  put  it  through  your  heart  if  you  attempt  to  speak 
or  cry.  "Will  you  be  still  ?" 

The  child  nodded  assent. 

"  You  will  ?  well  then,  I  will  take  you  up  stairs, 
way  up,  up  ;  you  must  not  speak,  you  must  go  very 
softly.  After  you  are  there  we  will  see  what  we  will 
do.  Will  you  be  still  ?"  she  asked  again. 

Poor  Imogen,  shivering  with  the  damp,  promised 
again,  and  the  woman,  holding  the  naked  dirk  and 
taper  in  one  hand,  and  Imogen  in  the  other,  went  out. 
On  the  way  up  Imogen  heard  the  steps  of  a  third  per 
son  behind  her,  but  she  dared  not  look  round.  On 
reaching  the  attic  she  was  placed  in  a  room  under  the 


29-0  THE    NEWSBOY. 

roof,  the  small  windows  of  which  were  hidden  on  the 
outside  by  iron  tracery  painted  white,  so  that  they 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  the  cornice  which 
ornamented  the  entire  side  of  the  building.  These 
windows  were  grated  upon  the  inside  so  closely  as  to 
add  still  more  to  the  gloominess  of  the  room.  A  rich 
carpet  had  been  hastily  thrown  upon  the  floor,  a 
lounge  and  other  articles  of  convenience. 

As  the  woman  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  carry 
ing  the  light  with  her,  Imogen  leaped  up  breathless  with 
terror.  "Don't  leave  me  here,  don't  please,  dear  lady. 
Oh  send  me  back  to  dear  mamma,  send  me  back,  do 
please ;  I'll  never  tell,  I'll  never  say  a  word  only  about 
your  goodness  and  pity  ;"  and  she  clung  to  her  robes, 
whispering  out  her  words  between  her  tears  and  sobs, 
fearful  to  be  heard  by  other  ears. 

The  woman  pushed  her  back  into  the  room  in  si 
lence,  and  bolted  the  door  as  she  went  out.  Imogen 
fell  heavily  upon  the  floor.  How  long  she  lay  there 
she  could  not  tell,  for  upon  opening  her  eyes  she  had 
been  laid  upon  the  couch,  and  some  one  was  holding 
her  little  hand  in  his. 

"Papa,  clear  papa,  is  it  you?"  whispered  the 
child. 

There  was  no  reply,  and  she  drew  back  her  hand, 
and  was  silent ;  but  the  darkness  of  the  room,  the 
mysterious  silence,  and  the  presence  of  an  invisible 


THE    SLAVE.  291 

human  being  whose  appearance  she  could  not  even 
imagine  wrought  upon  her  with  fearful  power. 

"  Oh  mamma,  mamma !"  she  ejaculated,  giving 
way  to  a  low  wail,  far  more  touching  than  a  more 
elaborate  grief.  A  light  suddenly  appeared,  and  then 
Imogen  saw  that  the  tall  dark  man  whom  she  had 
often  seen  in  the  street,  was  seated  in  a  heavy  chair 
beside  her.  He  did  not  speak,  but  bringing  the  light 
down  near  to  her  face,  he  put  back  the  tangled  hair 
and  studied  her  face  closely. 

"  The  same  eyes,  the  same  golden  hair,  but  far  less 
beautiful ;  but  there  is  his  look — his,  to  blast  me,  and 
madden  me  to  vengeance,"  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth  ;  and  then  he  gave  a  glass  to  her  lips,  and  bade 
her  drink.  It  was  dark  and  foaming,  and  the  child 
hesitated. 

"  Is  it  poison  ?  will  it  kill  me  ?" 

"  Drink,"  repeated  the  Spaniard.  The  child 
obeyed,  lifting  at  the  same  time  her  eyes  to  his  face, 
and  then  she  folded  her  little  hands,  and  said  in  a 
clear  solemn  voice, — 

"  God  sees  you,  and  hears  me — I  shall  die,  but  he 
will  come  to  you  and  call  for  me — remember;"  but 
the  drug  was  too  potent  for  her,  the  lids  folded  them 
selves  over  her  innocent  eyes,  and  she  slept ;  a  moment 
more,  and  she  started  up  and  repeated,  "  deliver  us 
from  evil,"  as  if  her  little  heart  had  been  praying  all 


292  THE   NEWSBOY. 

the  -while.  Her  hands  were  folded  nun-like  over  her 
bosom,  and  a  cross  she  wore  about  her  neck  had  been 
grasped  between  them,  rendering  the  appearance  even 
more  similar.  The  Spaniard,  with  instinctive  rever 
ence,  observed  the  attitude,  and  the  cross,  and  his  lips 
muttered  their  accustomed  "  Sacre." 

As  Imogen  slept,  whether  it  was  the  effect  of  the 
drug  or  the  terror,  I  do  not  know,  but  she  became  so 
deadly  pale  that  Marcou  was  alarmed,  and  put  his 
finger  to  the  delicate  wrist  to  feel  if  the  pulse  beat. 
Imogen's  little  finger's  clung  to  the  cross  more  tightly, 
Poor  child !  she  wore  it  merely  as  an  ornament,  but 
now  as  the  vengeful  Catholic  saw  her  cling  to  the 
sacred  symbol  of  his  faith  he  felt  himself  rebuked  ;  for 
vindictive  as  he  was,  he  was  devout  in  the  Spanish 
way.  He  was  glad  when  the  door  opened,  and  the 
woman  with  the  wen  entered,  and  knelt  down  and 
scanned  with  him  the  face  of  the  sleeper.  She  too, 
touched  the  wrist  and  whispered,  "  there  is  no  danger." 

As  the  soft,  dark  hand  rested  over  the  wrist,  you 
couldn't  help  following  it  up  the  arm,  round  and 
beautiful  and  naked  to  the  shoulder,  except  where  the 
meshes  of  a  black  Spanish  veil  swept  lightly  over  it ; 
and  then  to  the  superb  bust  and  neck,  where  was  no 
wen  at  all,  but  a  fair  ivory  tower,  curved  with  pride, 
and  the  veins  upon  either  side  swelling  with  passion. 
Her  black  hair  was  partially  confined  at  the  back  with 


THE    SLAVE.  293 

silver  bodkins,  but  was  allowed  to  fall  in  waving 
masses  nearly  to  her  feet.  Large,  black  eyes  shone 
under  their  finely  cut  brows,  which  were  contracted 
sharply  over  them  at  this  moment. 

"  Juan,"  she  said,  in  a  quick  voice.  The  Spaniard 
made  no  reply. 

"  Juan" — there  was  something  appealing  in  the 
tone,  and  Marcou  looked  up. 

"  You  told  me  she  was  a  child,  a  mere  child." 

"  She  is  nothing  more." 

The  woman  pointed  to  the  form  rounding  to  ma 
turity,  and  the  limbs  •  emerging  from  the  unmeaning 
shape  of  childhood ;  and  at  this  moment  Imogen 
turned  her  face  more  to  the  light,  and  revealed  the 
lips  full  and  coral — bright,  even  while  her  cheek  was 
pale — her  masses  of  hair  had  fallen  over  the  couch, 
and  laid  like  a  net-work  of  gold. 

"  Juan,"  repeated  the  woman. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Nonina,"  responded  the  other. 

"  I  am  no  fool,  that  you  know,  Juan.  I  am  no 
slave  at  heart,  though  your  thrall — I  am  a  slave  only 

in  my  love,  but  even  that  can  yield  to ," 

and  she  compressed  her  lip  and  turned  away. 

"  Nina,"  said  her  companion,  softly. 

The  woman  turned  her  head  toward  him,  but  in  a 
cold,  haughty  manner. 

"  Nonina,  you  can  be  a  fiend,  when  you  will — but 


294  THE    NEWSBOY. 

is  it  not  better  to  be  yourself,  Juan's  great,  glorious 
creature  of  passion,  and  beauty,  and  genius  ?  What 
should  you  fear  from  a  child  like  that  ?  I  tell  you, 
were  she  ten  times  the  white  angel  she  is,  I  should 
hate  her  still,  because  of  the  mother's  blood,  and  the 
father's  look  in  her." 

The  woman  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  clasped 
him  in  her  arms  amid  a  shower  of  tears. 

"  Blessed  Mary  !  how  I  love  this  man  !"  she  ejacu 
lated.  "  Juan,  I  am  your  bond-slave,  your  thrall, 
your  chattel,  anything  but  your  wife,  and  that  I  spurn. 
Give  me  your  love,  your  soul  and  heart,  Juan,  and  I 
am  content.  "When  I  lose  that,  I  lose  all.  Life  will 
be  no  life  to  Nina.  Tell  me  you  cannot,  will  not  love 
that  child,  Juan,  and  I  will  curse  myself  a  thousand 
fold  for  your  dear  sake ;  a  thousand-fold,  dear  Juan, 
for  hell  would  be  heaven  shared  with  you,  and  heaven 
hell  without  you." 

Juan  drew  the  wild  blasphemous  creature  to  his 
heart,  and  promised,  and  promised  truly  all  she  re 
quired.  ISTonina  was,  as  she  intimated,  the  slave  of 
Juan — one  of  those  beautiful  quadroons  so  marvellous 
ly  fair  in  person,  and  vehement  in  passion.  She  had 
been  educated  with'  care,  danced  and  sang,  and  touched 
the  guitar  with  equal  taste  and  skill,  composed  music 
and  poetry  with  grace  and  precision,  and  read  as  Juan 
did  all  the  works  of  genius  of  several  nations.  For 


THE    SLAVE.  295 

many  years,  however,  her  talents  and  whole  life  had 
been  dedicated  to  her  young  master,  whom  she  loved  as 
we  have  seen,  and  whose  projects  she  advanced  with  a 
never-failing  inventiveness  and  zeal. 

Alas !  unhappy  woman !  everywhere,  in  every 
aspect  of  man,  his  slave  in  one  shape  or  another.  Woe 
to  her,  woe,  woe,  if  love  work  not  out  her  redemption. 
Woe,  woe  if  the  "  much  loving"  do  not  open  heaven's 
gates  to  her  bruised  and  broken  heart.  Does  she  stoop 
in  loving  ?  Or  is  man  her  master  ?  her  God  ?  her 
head  ?  and  through  him  is  her  vision  upward  ?  Are 
her  sins  his  or  her  own  ?  In  loving,  does  she  become 
denied  ?  or  does  this  element  of  the  great  God  of  love 
absorb  her  into  himself,  and  she  is  little  less  than 
angel  ?  Think  of  these  things,  Eeader,  for  indeed  we 
are  all  blind  children,  needing  the  light. 

An  hour  after  this  interview  the  rich  voice  of  Nb- 
nina  was  chanting  her  hymn  to  the  Virgin,  she  kneel 
ing  in  her  voluptuous  robes  before  the  crucifix,  rever 
ently  shaded  by  its  snowy  curtain  through  the  day, 
put  aside  only  for  prayer,  and  then  screened  lest  any 
sin  should  be  visible  to  its  pure  presence  : — 


Holy  Virgin,  loving,  trusting, 
Uttering  only  thy  "  behold ;" 
Oh  thou  undefiled,  dear  Mary,- 
Angels  come  not  as  of  old — 
Listen, Mary,  list,  oh  list. 


296  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Angels  come  not  to  our  longing, 
Though  we  utter  our  "behold," 
Mercy!  oh  sweet,  loving  Mary, 
Virgin  pure,  and  Virgin  cold, 
Listen,  Mary,  list,  oh  list. 

And  her  face  fell  to  her  knees  as  she  poured  out  her 
fervent  prayer  to  the  pure  soul  of  divine  whiteness, 
for  which  the  true  woman  longs  deepest,  when  loving 
deepest.  Thus  sang  Nonina,  and  the  voice  of  Dona 
Isabella  responded  where  she  sat  in  her  own  bower, 
thinking  of  the  past,  and  longing  for  her  tropical 
home.  The  neighbors  heard  nightly  the  songs  of  the 
Catholic  family,  so  quiet,  and  living  so  entirely  to 
themselves,  and  they  felt  a  respect  for  them  in  spite 
of  the  bitter  prejudices  of  religion.  Would  the  in 
terior  of  a  Protestant  house  bear  to  be  fully  revealed 
to  the  world  ?  "We  have  shown  that  that  of  the  pious 
Catholic  had  its  secret  skeleton. 


XL. 


WE  must  now  return  to  our  Newsboy,  whom  we 
left  totally  insensible,  stretched  at  length  upon  the 
floor  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor's  hall.  Eack-o'-bones  would 
have  had  him  conveyed  back  to  the  little  car,  but  the 
tumult  in  the  house  had  aroused  the  bereaved  mother 
somewhat  from  her  stupor  of  grief;  and  she  slowly 
descended  the  stairs.  A  few  hours  had  wrought  fear 
fully  upon  her.  She  had  not  grown  old,  nor  bent,  nor 
distorted,  but  she  had  grown  unearthly  looking.  Her 
face  was  marble  white,  and  her  eyes  receded  inward 
with  a  yellow,  preternatural  light  in  them.  She  did 
not  speak  at  all,  nor  weep,  but  seeing  Charles  Gardner 
standing  pale  as  a  cloth  at  one  side,  she  opened  her 
matronly  arms,  and  the  beautiful  boy  fell  within  them, 
sobbing  violently.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  cheek 
and  patted  it  as  if  she  would  soothe  a  sick  and  wearied 
child.  13* 


298  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"Poor,  dear,  Fannie,"  murmured  the  husband, 
taking  her  in  his  arms  tenderly.  She  looked  in 
quiringly  into  his  face  and  then  stooped  down  over 
the  Newsboy.  A  clearer  light  grew  into  her  scattered 
senses,  and  she  sat  down  upon  the  floor  and  lifted  his 
head  into  her  lap.  She  rocked  her  body  back  and 
forth,  and  ejaculated,  "  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  can  you 
tell  me  what  it  all  means  ?  where  is  Imogen  ?"  and 
she  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  so  pitiful  a  way 
that  tears  were  in  all  eyes. 

Dr.  M •  now  arrived,  and  Bob  was  bled,  where 

he  lay,  and  at  length  he  opened  his  eyes,  but  very 
faintly,  and  whispered, 

"  We  's  poor,  and  ignorant,  ma'am,  but  we  does 
the  best  we  knows." 

"  Ah !  that  you  do,  my  poor  boy,"  responded 
Rack-o'-bones.  "  You  will  rest  in  the  bosom  of  Jesus, 
Bob,  when  them  that  despised  you  will  be  cast  out." 

"  Who  is  this  poor  youth  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinsmoor, 
who  stood  supporting  Fannie  in  his  arms. 

"  He  is  a  Newsboy,  without  father,  or  mother,  or 
friend  in  the  wide  world,"  responded  Kack-o'-bones, 
wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and 
then  smoothing  it  down  again  with  habitual  care. 

Bob  had  now  relapsed  into  insensibility,  and  as 
they  were  about  lifting  him  up  from  the  floor  Fannie 
motioned  them  to  follow  her,  and  they  bore  him  up 


THE    WRECK.  299 

stairs  and  laid  Mm  upon  a  bed  in  a  room  adjoining 
the  one  in  which  Imogen  had  slept.  When  this  was 
done,  Fannie  entered  her  daughter's  room  and  moved 
from  place  to  place,  now  taking  down  her  little  robes 
and  fondling  them  against  her  cheeks,  now  looking 
from  the  window  where  the  dark  night  still  "brooded. 
Glancing  into  the  bath  she  saw  it  was  empty,  and  she 
motioned  to  have  the  marble  basin  filled,  and  then  she 
smoothed  back  the  sheet  and  smiled,  and  sat  down 
in  the  large  chair  by  the  bed-side  and  listened  and 
waited. 

"  Oh  my  God !  this  is  greater  than  I  can  bear," 
cried  the  miserable  husband  and  father.  "  Fannie — 
Imogen — "  and  he  wept  aloud. 

"  Hush !"  said  Fannie  rising  and  putting  her  cold 
arms  about  his  neck.  "  She  will  soon  be  back,  and 
to-morrow  she  shall  be  christened,  the  dear,  darling, 
angel  child !" 

"  Oh  to-morrow  !  how  black  all  futures  will  look 
to  us,  dear  Fannie,"  replied  the  husband,  smoothing 
back  the  hair  which  already  was  beginning  to  whiten 
with  her  sorrow. 

"No,  he  said  she  would  come  back — and  he 
knows,  for  he  prays,  George,  he  prays  to  God,  and  we 
didn't;"  and  she  burst  out  into  wild  paroxysms  of 
tears. 

The  noble  father,  so  calm,  so  large-souled,  felt  the 


300  THE    NEWSBOY. 

rebuke,  and  lie  folded  her  more  closely  to  his  bosom, 
crying, 

"  My  lamb,  my  blessed  lamb,  I  should  have  been 
prophet  and  priest  to  thee,  while  I  have  been  but  of 
the  earth.  God  knows  I  have  loved  thee,  but  I  should 
have  walked  heavenward  with  thee.  Forgive  me, 
Fannie,  forgive  me,"  and  he  held  her  nearer  to  his 
heart.  But  she  pushed  him  back  and  looked  into  his 
face.  Oh  that  mute,  uncomprehending  look  was  terri 
ble  to  the  poor  husband,  and  he  walked  back  and 
forth  in  the  room  with  a  slow,  measured  tread,  as  if 
the  mind  refused  to  take  in  the  extent  of  the  evil 
which  had  befallen  him. 

Ah,  the  good  Father  is  merciful  in  this.  Sorrow, 
clad  in  her  sable  vesture,  knocks  at  one  chamber  of 
the  soul  after  another,  and  is  unwillingly  admitted  into 
each,  but  she  goes  on,  closing  no  door  behind  her, 
weeping  and  wringing  her  hands  as  she  goes,  till  at 
length  she  has  circled  one  and~all,  and  then  she  sits 
down,  black  and  mournful,  and  the  light  goes  out  of 
the  soul,  unless  we  reach  upward  and  kindle  it  again 
from  the  dear  altar  of  God's  love. 

Awhile  Fannie  watched  him  vacantly,  and  then 
seeing  a  book  just  as  Imogen  had  left  it,  with  the 
ivory  folder  between  the  leaves,  she  took  it  up  where 
the  child  had  pencil-marked  a  passage,  and  read  aloud 
as  follows : — 


THE    WRECK.  301 

"  A  little  bud,  at  break  of  day, 

"Within  its  bosom  found 
A  drop  of  dew,  in  which  a  ray 
Of  sunlight  had  been  drowned. 

'  I  '11  shut,'  she  said,  '  the  dew-drop  up, 

And  hold  it  in  my  heart ; 
I  '11  stay  a  bud,  and  from  my  cup 
The  dew  shall  not  depart. 

Sweet  drop  of  dew !  so  thou  and  I 

The  sun  shall  not  disclose — 
No  rainbow  thou  along  the  sky, 

And  never  la  rose.'  " 

"  Bead  it  again,  George,"  said  Fannie.  "  '  I  '11  stay 
a  bud ' — I  think  it  means  something  I  don't  quite  un 
derstand,  something  like  the  beautiful  thoughts  of  our 
child." 

And  Mr.  Dinsmoor  did  read  the  simple  words 
which  had  arrested  the  fancy  of  Imogen,  over  and 
over.  It  was  there  that  her  mind  had  last  rested — 
the  idea  had  prefigured  something  in  her  own  pure 
heart,  and  now  to  the  father  they  conveyed  a  mean 
ing  far  beyond  their  apparent  import,  for  words  are 
only  words,  till  some  great  necessity  in  our  hearts 
gives  them  a  meaning, .  and  then  they  are  like  the 
burning  scroll  written  upon  the  palace  wall  of  Bel- 
shazzar,  which  no  eye  saw  save  his,  and  no  man  could 
decipher,  but  the  prophet  of  God.  Ah!  suffering  is 
the  revealer  of  mysteries. 

Upon  reading  the  letter  of  Flashy  Jack,  Mr.  Dins- 


302  THE    NEWSBOY. 

moor  had  been  much  surprised  to  find  the  officer  who 
brought  Bob  to  the  door  had  so  suddenly  disappeared, 
most  especially  as  here  seemed  work  for  him  to  do. 
Another,  however,  made  his  appearance,  and  that 
young  gentleman  was  soon  put  under  arrest,  as  well 
as  the  girl  called  Maggie.  Upon  their  examination 
nothing  appeared  to  criminate  either,  and  they  were 
at  once  set  at  liberty,  while  the  whole  force  of  the 
police  was  bent  to  capture  the  two  Yan  Dams  and  the 
man  called  Skillings. 

The  two  first,  however,  were  already  down  past 
the  Hook,  for  able-bodied  seamen  are  always  in  de 
mand,  and  they  had  both  shipped  under  assumed 
names,  and  with  a  full  sailor  rig,  and  tarpaulins  upon 
their  heads,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  identify 
them  any  way.  $£ 

Skillings,  on  the  contrary,  made  his  appearance  at 
the  Astor  House,  an  invalid  gentleman,  who  had  been 
lamed  in  one  of  our  many  railway  accidents.  He 
paid  well,  saw  no  company,  and  finally  sailed  to  Cuba 
for  his  health. 

Flashy  Jack,  as  may  be  inferred,  could  not  well 
apply  himself  to  any  settled  avocation.  His  blood  was 
vagrant.  Like  the  Jew,  descended  from  a  stock  who 
wandered  forty  years,  dwelling  in  tents,  and  thence 
become  endowed  with  a  never-obliterated  desire  for 
locomotion,  so  Flashy  Jack  came  and  went,  always 


THE   WRECK.  303 

hating  to  repeat  himself,  disliking  this  employment 
because  he  had  followed  it  three  days,  and  that  be 
cause  he  had  followed  it  a  week.  The  place  in  which 
he  had  twice  slept  became  the  place  to  be  afterwards 
avoided.  He  appeared  at  intervals  as  a  star  at  the 
theatre,  but  as  he  could  not  well  endure  to  repeat  the 
same  thing  over  night  after  night,  as  the  star  must  do 
when  he  has  once  mastered  the  impersonation  of  a 
great  part,  Jack  ceased  to  be  a  profitable  feature  of  the 
boards. 

He  was  fond  of  going  and  coming,  like  Words 
worth  brook,  at  his  own  sweet  will,  and  saw  no 
reason  why  he  shouldn't  ride  and  sail,  smoke  and 
lounge  with  any  other  fashionable  loafer,  who  looks 
with  contempt  and  disgust  upon  all  continuous  manly 
effort.  Jack,  with  a  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket, 
saw  no  occasion  for  work  till  this  was  expended.  He 
differed  somewhat  from  the  mere  fashionable  loafer, 
and  I  think  the  difference  placed  Jack  in  the  superior 
light.  Your  fashionable  loafer,  when  short  of  funds, 
is  not  ashamed  to  sponge  upon  others.  He  invites 
himself  to  innumerable  dinners,  and  petits  soupers.  He 
dangles  in  the  wake  of  some  fashionable  woman,  who 
takes  him  about  as  she  would  her  poodle-dog.  He 
flatters  the  wife,  and  toadies  to  the  husband,  and  you 
will  find  each  of  them  has  contributed  to  the  sup 
port  of  the  poor,  contemptible  parasite,  who  is  too 


304  THE   NEWSBOY. 

mean  for  the  lower  regions,  or  Satan  would  have 
clutched  him  long  ago. 

Jack,  on  the  contrary,  earned  his  right  to  loafer- 
dom  by  spasmodic  toil,  and  honest  money-getting. 
He  would  have  scorned  to  take  money  from  any  one 
except  as  he  had  given  an  equivalent ;  and  as  to 
taking  it  from  a  woman,  I  do  believe  Flashy  Jack 
would  have  been  nauseated  at  the  very  thought.  By 
this  it  will  be  seen  that  fashionable  loaferdom,  that  is, 
the  exhibition  of  it  amongst  upper-tendom,  is  of  a 
much  more  revolting  order  than  amongst  a  lower 
rank  in  life;  and  indeed  I  am  of  the  opinion  that 
fashionable  vices  are  far  more  vicious  than  the  same 
things  upon  a  lower  scale.  I  do  not  see  that  the  un 
blushing  woman  who  rides  in  her  coach,  earned  in 
her  own  way,  is  a  whit  lower  in  morals  than  the  un 
blushing  woman  who  leads  the  same  life,  and  lounges 
in  the  same  way  in  a  carriage  purchased  by  her  hus 
band,  screened  only  by  the  name  of  a  man  whom  she 
calls  husband,  but  in  heart  despises.  I  look  at  facts, 
and  mind  names  very  little. 

Flashy  Jack  would  find  himself  sometimes  driven 
to  exertion  quite  unexpectedly ;  but  as  his  resources 
were  unfailing,  he  might  be  seen  selling  papers,  work 
ing  on  board  of  a  lighter,  or  starring  it  at  a  theatre, 
only  because  some  unlucky  Newsboy  had  sunk  under 
fatigue  and  exposure.  Then  Flashy  Jack  nursed 


THE    WRECK.  305 

him  after  his  days  of  toil,  and  provided  the  few  com 
forts  his  simple  nature  claimed,  and  finally  buried  him 
away  in  his  obscure  grave,  just  as  he  buried  the  good 
deed  in  his  own  bosom. 

Flashy  Jack  had  found  so  many  poor  wretches 
starving  for  lack  of  bread,  freezing  from  lack  of  fuel, 
or  gone  mad  from  vice  and  misery,  that  he  emptied 
his  pockets  to  relieve  them,  and  went  to  work  again 
as  if  these  benevolent  impulses  of  his  were  the  com 
monest  things  in  the  world ;  as  if  everybody  would 
have  done  the  same  things.  On  one  of  these  occasions 
he  once  said  to  Bob,  quite  in  an  ill-used  way,  like 
a  man  who  might  exclaim  as  one  of  our  erudite 
cabinet  members  once  did,  "  Our  sufferings  is  intoler 
able": 

"  Bob,"  he  said,  "  now  you  are  naturally  virtuous; 
I  aint.  I  like  to  be  about  town.  You  don't  care  a 
d — -n  for  a  cigar,  neither  for  a  mint-julep,  a  glass  of 
brandy,  or  a  glass  of  whiskey.  I  like  them  all  with 
in  bounds.  You  like  to  work,  I  want  to  lay  off.  Now, 
this  makes  a  difference  between  us,  Bob.  You  make 
me  think  of  the  twelve  apostles,  leaving  out  Judas.  I 
am  in  no  way  pious,  rather  the  reverse  of  it.  I  don't 
like  to  give,  hang  me  if  I  do  ;  and  yet  all  these  lazy 
loafers  get  themselves  into  one  fix  after  another,  and 
I  have  to  get  'em  out.  I  have  to  pay  for  their  laziness, 
and  all  their  vile  appetites.  I  can't  lay  off  a  day, 


306  THE   NEWSBOY. 

because  I  must  work  to  keep  them  from  keeling  way 
over." 

To  this  Bob  replied,  ""We's  very  ignorant,  Jack, 
but  we  knows  better  nor  them,  and  must  use  our 
lights ;  and  on  the  whole,  I  thinks  it  nowise  bad  for 
you,  seeing  you  Ve  got  the  heart,  Jack.  I  thinks, 
Jack,  you  was  made  for  a  something  handsome,  and 
above-board ;"  and  the  Newsboy  looked  admiringly  at 
the  dashing  exterior,  enveloping  the  no  less  dashing 
impulses  of  Flashy  Jack. 


XLI. 


THE  third  day  after  Bob  had  been  knocked  down 
upon  the  steps  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor's  house,  while  there 
were  yet  no  tidings  of  the  lost  Imogen,  and  the  News 
boy  still  hovered  between  two  worlds,  Flashy  Jack 
made  his  appearance  at  the  little  car.  He  found 
Eack-o'-bones  faithfully  nursing  the  child  Dady, 
though  she  had  been  compelled  to  resort  to  begging 
in  order  to  meet  their  few  wants.  The  good  creature 
told  all  she  knew  of  the  events  of  the  last  few  days, 
and  Flashy  Jack  recounted  in  his  turn  the  particulars 
of  his  arrest  and  releasement,  which  was  insufficient 
to  throw  any  light  upon  the  subject.  He  had  known 
Cosmello  as  a  man  of  wealth  and  fashion  about  town, 
but  had  never  coupled  him  in  the  least  with  the  hard 
ened  ruffians  whom  he  kept  in  pay.  Jack  lacked  that 
clear,  pure  insight  which  distinguished  Bob,  whose 
instincts  were  so  much  better  than  other  men's  reason. 


308  THE    NEWSBOY. 

After  listening  to  the  details  of  Rack-o'-bones, 
tossing  Dady  in  the  air,  and  teaching  her  to  hunt  his 
pockets  for  money,  Flashy  Jack  turned  to  go. 

"  You  '11  be  having  a  hard  time,  mother,  I  'm  think 
ing,  now  poor  Bob 's  gone.  Here's  some  rhino,  too 
heavy  for  my  pockets,  mother — fashionable  cut,  you 
see,  makes  them  stick  out — I  wish  you  'd  take  it. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  too  much  money  half  the  time  in 
my  pockets,  and  people  that  take  it  do  me  a  kindness. 
Now  no  thanks,  mother,  I  'm  the  grateful  one,"  and 
Jack  darted  out  of  the  car  as  if  ashamed  of  himself. 
Jack  did  n't  halve  his  money  as  you  and  I  would  have 
done  with  our  best  friend,  Reader  ;  no,  he  gave  every 
"red  cent,"  as  he  said  with  a  sort  of  exultation, 
slapping  his  hands  over  his  pockets  after  buttoning 
them  up. 

"  Now,  Jack,  you  loon,  go  to  work  will  you,  what 
right  have  you  to  be  going  round  when  people  need 
your  work,  who  don't  know  how  to  work  themselves, 
butter-fingered  people,  letting  everything  slip  through  ? 
Go  to  work,  Jack,  and  done  with  your  squirming." 
Jack  addressed  this  to  himself  as  he  ran  up  the  steps 
of  Mr.  Dinsmoor's  house. 

"I  must  know  how  Bob  gets  on7  for  the  boys '11 
want  to  know,"  he  said  to  himself  as  an  apology  for 
the  liberty  he  was  taking. 

Flashy  Jack  was  ushered  into  the  darkened  room 


UNCONSIDERED   TRIPLES.          309 

where  a  nurse  moved  stealthily  from  place  to  place, 
and  in  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  bed  sat  Mrs.  Dins- 
moor,  white  and  still,  and  looking  at  the  face  of  the 
Newsboy,  which  gave  little  indications  of  life.  The 
room  was  so  cool,  so  dainty  nice,  and  Bob,  with  his 
poor,  aching  head  resting  on  those  white  pillows, 
looked  so  unlike  Bob,  sleeping  here  and  there  by  the 
wayside,  that  Jack  was  affected  with  a  sense  of  grati 
tude  and  happiness  for  his  friend  that  quite  subdued 
him  to  tears,  and  he  stooped  over  him  long  and  tender 
ly,  wiping  his  eyes,  for  it  seemed  to  Jack  that  a  few 
hours  would  close  the  scene  forever  upon  this  world. 
He  took  the  thin  hand  and  pressed  it  softly.  Bob 
opened  his  eyes  and  closed  them  heavily  again,  but  he 
returned  the  pressure  shortly  after,  and  this  was  a 
comfort ;  so  Jack  went  away  in  silence,  for  who  was 
there  to  suppose  that  the  Newsboy  had  a  friend  ? 

A  few  hours  after  the  departure  of  Flashy  Jack,  the 
surgeons  would  have  removed  Bob  to  a  hospital,  but 
Fannie  pleaded  so  earnestly  that  he  might  remain,  for 
somehow  she  had  learned  to  expect  something  from  Imo 
gen  through  him,  that  her  wishes  were  complied  with. 
Accordingly,  the  Newsboy  was  placed  upon  a  table 
and  the  delicate  operation  of  trepanning  performed 

upon  his  brain   by  Dr.  M ,  who   talked   all   the 

while  in  a  low  voice  to  the  students  present.  The  ef 
fect  seemed  little  less  than  miraculous.  His  breathing 


310  THE    NEWSBOY. 

became  less  labored,  his  pulse  equalized,  and  his  eyes 
resumed  a  look  of  intelligence.  The  doctor  sat  and 
watched  this,  interspersing  his  observations  by  allu 
sions  to  Syria  and  the  East.  Silence  was  strictly  en 
joined  when  he  went  out,  and  now  hope  was  afforded 
of  his  recovery. 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  learned  to  feel  an  interest  in  the 
Newsboy,  and  watched  night  after  night  by  his  side. 
Charles  Gardner  also,  whose  pale  cheek  told  how  his 
young  heart  was  wrung  at  the  mystery  which  hung 
over  the  fate  of  his  beautiful  young  friend.  "  Oh 
that  she  were  dead  I  oh  that  I  knew  she  was  with 
God,"  the  father  would  exclaim,  and  the  youth  pressed 
his  hand,  or  raised  it  to  his  lips,  for  his  heart  was  too 
full  for  words. 

The  Newsboy  had  continued  in  the  way  we  have 
shown,  utterly  prostrated  by  the  shock  he  had  sus 
tained, — a  dull  stupor  shrouding  his  senses,  sleeping 
much,  and  at  intervals  uttering  words  incoherent  in 
themselves,  and  unintelligible  to  those  about  him. 
Sometimes  he  called  Dady  in  a  low  chirruping  voice — 
sometimes  he  talked  of  Broken-back. 

"Does  you  love  Bob  now,  Minnie  ?  Does  you  ever 
think  of  the  times  when  we  went  to  hear  the  ladies 
sing?  You  said  you'd  come  to  Bob,  you  did — do 
they  forget  there,  Minnie  ?  Oh  don  't,  don 't  forget 
poor  Bob." 


[JN  CONSIDERED    TRIFLES.          oil 

Then,  "  Fs  very  tired,"  he  would  say.  "  Oh  !  the 
long,  long  road,  and  the  weary  feet  I"  for  the  fever 
hung  like  a  weight  upon  him,  and  he  suffered  indis 
tinctly  as  we  suffer  in  our  dreams.  He  had  slept 
many  hours, — days  and  weeks  had  passed  away,  and 
yet  he  had  no  consciousness  of  life,  only  a  dull  sense 
of  pain,  and  feeling  as  if  he  crept  along  gloomy  caves, 
and  climbed  interminable  hills.  Images  sad  and  dis 
torted  moved  before  his  vision,  shadowy  forms  ap 
peared  in  the  distance  beckoning  him  away — and  then 
all  was  blank,  except  that  he  seemed  to  have  emerged 
to  the  light — he  found  a  soft  pleasure  in  the  play  of 
his  lungs :  there  was  a  quiet  delight  in  lying  still,  so 
still,  never  lifting  up  the  eyes,  never  moving  the 
limbs,  never  attempting  to  speak.  He  seemed  to  be 
floating,  and  passing  away  into  the  distant  blue,  and  all 
the  past  faded  from  his  memory.  He  was  a  new  ex 
istence  just  born  into  regions  of  superhuman  beauty, 
and  remembering  no  more  the  anguish  ;  the  mind  for 
got  its  terrestrial  longings,  and  drank  the  fruition  of 
all  its  former  imaginings.  He  knew  there  was  light 
around  him,  he  knew  voices  were  uttering  words  in 
his  ear,  but  they  conveyed  no  idea  to  his  mind.  A 
heavenly  shape  moistened  his  lips,  and  put  back  the 
hair  from  his  brow — he  felt  the  sweetness  of  delight 
and  joy,  but  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

Again   there  was   a   period  of  fbrgetfulncss — he 


812  THE    NEWSBOY. 

slept  again,  for  no  memories,  no  traces  of  thought 
were  left,  and  at  length  he  opened  his  eyes.  A  lady 
in  white,  with  white  hair  falling  to  her  knees,  and 
bright,  and  soft  eyes,  was  bending  over  him. 

"  Be  you  one  of  the  angels?"  asked  Bob. 

Fannie  did  not  speak  at  first,  and  then  she  whis 
pered,  with  a  smile,  "  Did  you  see  Imogen  there  ?" 
Bob  tried  to  speak  again,  to  recall  the  past,  but  his 
weakness  was  too  great,  and  he  relapsed  into  insensi 
bility.  Time  at  length,  and  a  vigorous  constitution, 
recalled  the  Newsboy  from  the  verge  of  the  grave ; 
but  he  long  regarded  himself  in  another  world,  and 
thought  Fannie  a  spirit,  and  indeed  she  looked  little 
else,  so  gently  did  her  pure  soul  drop  its  hold  upon 
our  grief-laden  world. 

As  Bob  was  gradually  able  to  combine  the  circum 
stances  preceding  his  injury,  he  remembered  his  in 
tention  had  been  to  denounce  the  Spaniard  living  in 
Abingdon  Square,  as  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime  in 
which  the  Dinsmoor  family  were  so  painfully  involved. 
He  now  related  to  Mr.  Dinsmoor  all  he  had  observed 
for  so  many  years,  his  interview  with  the  girl  Nina  in 
her  character  of  servant,  with  a  wen  upon  her  neck, 
and  other  circumstances  tending  still  more  to  corrobor 
ate  his  suspicions.  A  search-warrant  was  at  once  ob 
tained,  but  as  the  family  had  passed  in  this  country 
under  the  name  of  Cosmello,  instead  of  the  true 


UN  CONSIDER  ED     TRIFLES.  313 

family  name  of  Marcou,  Mr.  Dinsmoor  could  not  de 
tect  his  old  enemy  in  the  occupant,  as  he  would  in 
stantly  have  done  had  the  more  remarkable  name  of 
Marcou  been  the  family  designation.  The  neighbors 
testified  to  the  excellent  character  of  the  Marcous,  their 
piety,  liberality,  and  exclusiveness.  They  had  lately 
embarked  for  Europe,  what  part  nobody  seemed  to 
know,  but  they  were  utterly  beyond  suspicion.  No 
child  went  with  them  or  had  ever  been  seen  in  the 
house ;  had  there  been  one  they  could  n't  fail  to  have 
known  it,  as  more  than  one  considerate  neighbor  had 
watched  all  the  process  of  moving,  through  the  blinds, 
upon  the  day  of  their  departure,  which  was  more  than 
a  week  after  the  disappearance  of  Imogen  as  recorded 
in  the  public  prints. 

The  coachman  of  Marcou  pondered  many  things 
in  his  mind,  but  he  had  no  proof  that  the  parcel  he 
carried  that  night  was  any  living  thing,  although  he 
thought  it  might  be ;  but  then  it  might  as  well  have  been 
a  dog  or  a  large  monkey  as  a  child  ;  he  could  n't  say — 
he  rather  inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  was  a  dog,  for 
the  Spaniard  was  fond  of  dogs ;  and  as  Marcou  on 
his  departure  gave  him  the  carriage  and  horses,  by  no 
means  an  extraordinary  gift  for  a  man  of  his  wealth, 
the  coachman  could  have  taken  his  oath  in  any  court 
of  law,  if  required,  that  he  took  a  large,  black  dog 
home  openly  in  the  carriage  that  night :  he  did  n't  do 

14 


314  THE    NEWSBOY. 

so  for  the  reason  that  lie  was  not  required  to  do  it,  but 
he  was  ready  for  the  oath  at  any  time,  so  much  had 
his  faculties  been  sharpened  up. 

The  passenger-lists  of  all  the  packets  had  been  ex 
amined,  a  police  appointed  to  inspect  all  the  outways 
of  the  city,  a  search  warrant  had  opened  all  suspicious 
domicils,  and  yet  nothing  transpired  to  throw  any 
light  upon  the  subject,  and  gradually  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
resigned  himself  to  the  belief  that  Imogen  was  lost  to 
them  and  forever. 

"  Oh  that  I  knew  that  she  was  with  God!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Don't  you  know  that  now,  Sir?"  asked  the 
'Newsboy.  "  It  seems  to  me  she  is  with  him  always. 
I  do  not  care  to  see  God,  if  he  could  be  seen,  for  I  feel 
him  in  my  heart,  and  see  all  along  the  earth  where 
he  has  been ;  for  it  seems  to  me  the  trees  are  his 
cards  placed  all  along  his  path,  and  the  ocean  is  a  great 
handbill  spread  out  for  us  to  read  him.  I  do  not  see 
Silver -tongue,  but  she  is  with  God  somewhere,  and 
he  will  keep  her ;  and  he  will  never  let  the  dew,  as 
was  said  in  that  piece,  fall  out  of  her  heart." 

"  Just  hear  him,  dear  George  ;  he  will  bring  Imo 
gen  back  some  time,  won't  you  Bob,"  Fannie  would 
say,  for  she  was  now  more  of  a  child  than  Imogen 
had  been  ;  and  now  the  language  of  the  Newsboy  had 
something  prescient  and  inspired  about  it,  and  her 


UNCO N SIDE ii ED    TRIFLES.          315 

poor  heart  clung  to  him  as  to  her  only  hope.  She 
did  not  question  him,  but  she  waited  for  him  to  speak, 
and  listened  to  his  words  as  a  true  believing  heart 
would  listen  to  a  prophet.  Then  as  the  Newsboy 
gradually  arose  from  the  bed  of  suffering,  Fannie 
grew  every  day  more  feeble.  She  made  no  complaint. 
She  did  not  weep,  but  she  became  less  and  less  able 
to  rise,  and  at  length  she  -remained  altogether  in  bed : 
and  then,  seated  by  her  side,  might  be  seen,  day  after 
day,  the  Newsboy,  still  pale  and  weak,  but  buoyed  up 
as  ever,  by  good  and  great  thoughts. 


XLII. 


BOB  was  yet  too  feeble  to  descend  the  stairs,  but 
now  that  he  was  convalescent,  his  thoughts  naturally 
reverted  often  to  little  Dady,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  so  long  a  time.  Rack-o'-bones  had  helped  to  nurse 
him  all  through  his  terrible  period  of  suffering,  leav 
ing  Dady  at  home  in  the  car,  where  she  amused  her 
self  much  as  a  young  kitten  would  have  done,  now 
looking  from  place  to  place,  twirling  a  stick,  a  ball,  or 
bit  of  paper,  and  now  sleeping.  Bob,  as  we  have  seen, 
was  a  straightforward  boy,  and  accordingly  he  ad 
dressed  Mr.  Dinsmoor  one  morning,  with  some  little 
hesitation,  and  yet  with  a  direct  sort  of  old-man  way. 

"  I  think,  Sir,  I  'd  like  to  have  Rack-o'-bones 
bring  over  my  child  to  see  me,  seein'  she  has  n't  no 
body  else  to  love  her,"  he  said. 

"  Your  child,  Bob,"  repeated  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  eye 
ing  him  with  a  surprised  look. 

"I  does  n't  know  how  many  years  it  is  since  I  was 


THE  BENEFITS    OF    ORPHANAGE.    317 

put  into  this  world,"  answered,  the  Newsboy,  "but 
I 's  had  one  or  more  children  this  four  winters  on  my 
hands,  Sir,  and  I  am  free  to  say  I  Ve  done  a  father's 
duty  by  them,  letting  alone  the  laming,  and  Minnie, 
was  too  delicate-like  to  larn." 

Now  Kack-o'-bones  in  giving  the  history  of  Bob, 
had  left  Dady  altogether  out  of  the  matter,  conceiving 
her  to  be  of  little  or  no  account,  and  this  was  the  first 
knowledge  Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  of  the  existence  of  the 
child.  He  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  the  Newsboy, 
and  inquired  more  fully  into  his  history,  which  he 
gave  as  we  have  before  related. 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  listened  in  silence.  Here  was  a 
poor,  ignorant,  friendless  youth,  who  had  done  so  many 
acts  of  good-will  for  his  kind.  Who,  without  guid 
ance  from  any  one,  had  acted  out  so  much  of  the 
divine  element  of  love,  that  it  is  more  than  probable 
the  thoughts  of  the  rich  merchant  rapidly  recalled  the 
circumstances  of  his  own  career,  and  he  felt  his  own 
short-comings.  He  to  whom  thousands  were  less 
than  a  dime  to  the  noble-hearted  Newsboy,  he  must 
have  felt  rebuked  before  him,  for  the  tears  came  to 
his  eyes. 

"  Bob,  you  are  a  miracle  of  goodness,"  he  ex 
claimed,  and  he  pressed  his  thin,  hard  hand,  with 
more  reverence  than  he  had  ever  approached  that  of 
priest  or  ruler. 


318  THE    NEWSBOY. 

«  There,  Sir,  you  are  not  quite  right,  the  will  was 
in  me,  but  I'm  more  ignorant  nor  a  heathen,  and  how 
could  I  do  good,  when  I  'd  so  little  money  ?  Oh,  Sir, 
many  's  the  time  I  've  heard  singin',  and  dancin',  in  a 
great  house,  men  and  women  lookin'  so  handsome, 
and  a  smilin'  as  if  everybody  in  the  world  had  nothin' 
else  to  do  but  smile,  and  the  poor  critters  outside 
lookin'  on,  some  on  'em  climbin'  up  on  the  trees  to  see, 
some  on  'em  on  the  lamp-post,  and  some  on  the 
railin' ;  and  they  was  hungry,  but  they  forgot  it  in 
the  fine  sight ;  they  was  miserable,  but  they  forgot  it 
then ;  they  was  in  rags  and  tatters,  but  they  forgot  it  all 
then  ;  only  some,  who  went  away  with  murder  in  their 
hearts,  and  some  with  plans  to  rob  and  steal ;  but  oh, 
Sir,  not  one  of  'em  went  away  blessin'  God  in  their 

'  J 

hearts,  and  I  'm  free  to  say  these  things  is  all  wrong. 
No  Sir,  I  'se  done  no  good.  I  kept  some  from  starvin', 
that's  all,  and  Minnie  more'n  paid  me  back,  she  did." 

Bob  was  silent  a  moment,  for  something  in  his 
throat  stopped  him,  and  then  he  went  on. 

"  Molly,  Sir,  what 's  dead,  she  died  with  her  head 
on  my  shoulder,  and  the  rain  a  pouring  on  to  her  face. 
Molly  came  to  me  once,  and  I  went  with  her  to  look 
into  a  great  house 'where  the  singin'  and  dancin'  was. 
'  He  will  le  there,'  she  said ;  and,  Sir,  he  was  there. 
Molly  wrung  her  hands  and  cried  ;  he  so  fine,  and  she 
naked  as  'twere ;  he  so  honored-like,  and  she  despised 


TIIE    BENEFITS    OF    ORPHANAGE.    319 

and  abused  ;  he  so  happy  and  so  rich,  and  she  pourin' 
out  her  tears,  and  sayin'  '  oh  mother,  mother !'  and 
there  on  the  cold  stones,  and  nothin'  to  eat.  I  went 
up  the  steps  and  I  called  him  out,  Sir,  and  he  had  to 
come.  I  told  him  he  should  come,  and  he  did,  Sir  ; 
and  I  showed  him  poor  Molly,  but  she  gave  a  shriek 
as  brought  out  the  police,  and  he  threw  down  some 
money  and  ran  up  the  steps  again  to  dance,  and 
smile ;  and,  Sir,  that  is  the  way  the  poor  come  to  hate 
the  rich,  not  because  of  the  money  but  the  sin  that 
goes  with  it ;  the  sin  which  the  money  hides  ;  the  sin 
which  the  money  keeps  out  of  prisons  ;  the  sin  which 
money  keeps  away  from  the  gallows ;  the  sin  which 
money  makes  all  fair  and  honored-like." 

Bob,  weak  as  he  was,  arose  to  his  feet  in  saying  all 
this ;  he  was  very  pale,  but  his  cheek  glowed  as  he 
spoke,  and  his  deep,  dark  eyes  had  a  fire  and  beauty 
in  them  now.  His  hair,  brushed  back  from  his  forehead, 
had  under  better  care  become  smooth  and  glossy ;  his 
thin  limbs  clad  in  a  partial  undress,  all  conspired  to 
render  him  half  beautiful  and  inspired  in  his  looks. 
Fannie,  as  she  lay  pale  and  smiling  amid  the  lace  and 
embroidery  of  her  pillows,  listened  with  an  intense, 
contented  look,  more  touching  than  the  interest  of  her 
husband. 

"  He  will  bring  home  Imogen,  dear,"  she  mur 
mured,  addressing  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  and  the  husband 


320  THE    NEWSBOY. 

and  father  could  only  kiss  the  pale  hand  extended  to 
him,  and  smooth  back  the  white  hair  scattered  over 
the  pillow,  and  read  in  every  sweet,  calm  look,  and  in 
her  pale  cheek,  "  death's  doings." 

u  Look  at  him,  George,  dear,  and  he  has  n't  any 
mother,"  continued  Fannie.  "I'm  Imogen's  mother, 
Bob,  did  you  know  it?"  and  she  half  raised  herself 
upon  the  pillow.  Bob  sank  down  by  the  bedside, 
and  kissed  the  little  thin  hand,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  has  no  mother,"  he  murmured.  "  It's 
dreadful  to  make  'em  ache-hearted  as  mothers  are. 
Bob  never  made  anybody  weep,  and  when  he  dies  the 
sun  will  be  in  the  sky  and  on  the  face  of  all  just  the 
same." 

"  But  you  would  love  your  mother,  Bob,  would 
you  not  ?"  asked  Fannie,  with  the  look  and  tone  of  a 
little  child. 

"  I  Ve  thought  of  that,"  replied  the  Newsboy,  "  and 
I  thinks  I  should  be  placing  her  on  a  bank  of  flow 
ers,  and  putting  them  on  her  head,  and  in  her  hand. 
I  should  work  all  day  and  all  night  for  the  joy  of 
thinking  about  her.  I  Ve  looked  at  mothers  and  seen 
children  callin'  of  'em  mother,  and  I  thought  they 
didn't  know  how  a  mother  is  so  like  God,  giving 
givin',  and  never  askin'  for  a  return.  I  sees  they  pray 
to  'em  in  some  churches,  and  so  should  I,  if  I  ever  had 


THE    BENEFITS    OF    ORPHANAGE.    321 

"  Mothers  are  not  always  worthy  of  so  much  love, 
Bob,"  replied  Mr.  Dinsmoor. 

"  There,  Sir,  I  can't  think  with  you,"  responded 
the  Newsboy.  u  'Cause  why  ?  mothers  is  always 
good,  good  in  their  hearts,  but  for  the  wrong  done  'em 
somewhere  j  the  woman  may  be  bad  but  the  mother 
is  good.  I  Ve  seen  'em  go  to  bed  on  the  ground  with 
out  a  mouthful  to  eat,  and  yet  the  children  had  bread. 
I  Ve  done  it  many  's  the  time  for  my  children,  and 
mothers '11  do  more  than  I've  done.  I  thinks,  Sir, 
women  is  better  nor  we  ;  they  always  have  soft  kind 
of  feelin's  in  their  heart,  when  men  don't ;  and  they 
pray,  Sir  ;  I  Ve  heard  'em  pray  because  of  the  sin,  till 
I  could  n't  stand  it ;  but  bad  men  does  n't  pray." 

"  But  suppose  your  mother  were  very  bad,  Bob, 
would  you  love  her  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  just  the  same,  and  cling  to  her,  and  honor 
her,  for  the  good  she  had  done  me.  If  I  was  rich 
as  you  are,  Sir,  I  would  leave  the  whole  world  to  fol 
low  her,  and  ease  her  heart  when  the  grief  come." 

"  You  do  not  know,  Bob,  you  do  not  know  but 
your  father  and  mother,  could  you  find  them  now, 
would  be  so  bad  as  to  make  you  ashamed  of  them," 
persisted  Mr.  Dinsmoor. 

The  Newsboy's  face  became  suffused  with  a  faint 
blush,  and  his  eyes  fell  for  a  moment,  but  he  answered 

calmly, 

14* 


322  THE    NEWSBOY. 

u  I  know  there  was  good  in  them,  because  of  the 
good  In  me.  I  do  not  care  to  find  them — 'cause  why  ? 
I  could  not  bear  the  learnin'  to  feel  that  I  belonged  to 
them.  Now  I  can  do  in  my  own  way.  I  belong  to 
nobody.  If  my  father  and  mother  were  bad,  nobody 
can  point  and  say  Bob  is  disgraced  through  them. 
I  'm  alone,  Sir,  have  come  up  alone,  but  I  could  n't 
shame  anybody  in  any  way." 

Bob  said  this  proudly,  as  he  had  a  right  to  say  it, 
and  feel  it  also,  for  he  "knew  his  worthiness" — could 
look  down  into  his  whole  being  and  find  nothing  there 
over  which  to  rake  the  ashes  and  dust  of  concealment. 

"I'm  thinkin',  Sir,"  he  continued,  "them  that 
never  know  their  parents  is  the  best  off.  They  will 
have  no  bad  to  be  ashamed  of  in  that  case ;  and  if 
they  find  something  good  and  manly-wise  in  them 
selves,  they  can  know  how  they  come  by  it ;  and  then, 
Sir,  their  mothers  is  like  angels  in  books  and  picters, 
things  beautiful  away  off,  to  be  loved  and  honored. 
Silver-tongue,  ma'am,  is  like  you.  She  'd  be  white  in 
her  soul,  and  lovin'  in  her  heart,  like  Minnie  was ;  if 
all  the  world  was  bad,  she  could  n't  be.  The  dew  is  in 
her  heart,  ma'am,  and  it  will  stay  there." 

"God  bless  you,  my  noble  boy,"  ejaculated  Mr. 
Dinsmoor.  "  Send  for  Dady,  Bob  ;  and  now  you  must 
not  talk  any  more,  for  your  cheek  is  growing  too  much 
flushed  already." 


XLIII. 


IMOGEN  had  no  means  of  estimating  time,  but  it 
was  late  in  the  day  when  she  awoke  to  find  a  dark, 
slender  woman  looking  steadfastly  into  her  face, 
whose  sharp  features  were  nearly  concealed  by  masses 
of  black  hair  loosely  gathered  under  a  gold  and  crim 
son  handkerchief  ;  she  had  also  a  large  wen  upon  the 
side  of  the  neck,  concealed  by  a  fold  of  linen.  Black, 
penetrating  eyes  looked  out  under  a  brow  stern  and 
contracted.  There  was  the  serpent  in  that  look,  the 
fixed  serpent  gaze,  and  the  undulations  of  the  figure 
as  she  slowly  moved  her  body  or  stirred  a  shoulder 
under  uneasy  thoughts,  gave  her  still  more  the  appear 
ance.  The  arms  were  folded  in  front,  each  hand 
grasping  the  elbow  of  the  other  arm,  and  there  was 
something  lithe  and  serpent-like  in  the  round  taper 
wrist  thus  convolved. 

Imogen's  eyes  opened  from  sleep  upon  the  form  of 


324  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Nonina  thus  seated.  Her  large,  candid  eyes  grew 
wide  and  wide  as  she  gazed.  She  felt  there  was  some 
thing  sinister  in  the  look  which  she  encountered,  and 
she  tried  long  and  earnestly  to  fathom  its  import,  but 
the  black  tinge  and  the  black  eyes  were  a  mask  under 
which  little  could  be  read.  She  could  not  escape  the 
gaze  of  the  woman,  whose  expression  grew  more  in 
tense  every  moment,  and  who  bit  her  red  lips  till  they 
looked  a  thread  of  coral  overlapped  with  pearls.  Like 
the  dove  fascinated  by  the  snake,  Imogen  raised  her 
self  upon  her  elbow  and  thus  approached  nearer,  and 
then  a  flood  of  memories  came  suddenly  to  her  mind 
and  she  wept.  The  spell  was  broken,  for  nothing  evil 
can  resist  the  holy  baptism  of  tears. 

"  Will  you  take  me  home  ?"  asked  the  child. 

"  Ha — a,"  said  the  woman,  too  deaf  to  hear  her, 
and  bringing  her  head  nearer,  and  growing  all  at  once 
old  and  imbecile  in  look. 

"  Will  you  take  me  home  to  my  poor,  dear  mam 
ma  ?" 

This  time  Nonina  could  hear,  and  she  answered 
sharply, 

"  This  is  your  home,  }^ou  will  never  go  out  of  it." 

Imogen  glanced  around  the  small  prison-like  room, 
and  into  the  face  of  her  keeper.  She  held  up  her  little, 
powerless-looking  hands,  and  clenched  them  with  in 
stinctive  contempt.  She  arose  to  her  feet,  shook  out 


THE    SLAVE.  325 

her  hair,  and  glanced  at  her  small  figure  as  she  crossed 
the  glass,  the  woman  following  her  all  the  time  with 
her  snake-like  eyes.  Something  was  growing  upon 
the  child,  something  that  every  moment  transformed 
her  to  a  woman.  She  sat  down  and  attempted  to  veil 
her  round  limbs  with  her  short  dress.  Nonina  ob 
served  the  movement  and  muttered, 

"  Yes,  you  shall  have  rags  to  cover  your  naked 


ness." 


The  first  impulse  of  Imogen  was  to  weep  at  this 
rude  speech,  but  she  checked  herself  and  replied, 

"  You  may  bring  me  rags,  but  I  will  not  wear 
them." 

"  Ha — a,"  said  the  girl,  seizing  her  by  the  wrist. 

Imogen  repeated,  and  with  still  more  decision,  for 
now  it  was  a  contest  of  will  between  the  two. 

"  "We  shall  see,"  she  rejoined.  "  We  shall  see  ; 
there 's  the  black-hole  and  the  whip  for  the  slave,  and 
you  are  a  slave ;  ha,  ha,  a  slave  of  the  worst  kind. 
I  '11  help  you  to  be  tamed.  I  '11  help  you  to  the  end 
of  your  tether,  and  then  help  you  down,  down,  till 
the  poorest  slave  shall  scorn  you." 

All  this  time  Nonina  held  the  wrist  of  the  child 
firmly  grasped,  and  eyed  her  with  a  keen,  malignant 
gaze,  and  when  she  ceased  she  threw  her  arm  from 
her.  Imogen  was  unable  to  comprehend  the  meaning 
of  the  woman,  but  she  knew  it  was  of  evil  import,  and 


326  THE    NEWSBOY. 

she  gathered  up  her  little  person,  with  a  new  dignity, 
and  replied  with  a  lip  that  did  not  even  tremble, 

"  God  will  keep  me." 

"  Hold  your  blasphemous  tongue,"  rejoined  the 
woman,  forgetting  her  assumed  deafness.  "  I  tell  you, 
that  the  dead  of  a  thousand  years  are  no  more  dead 
than  you  are.  Call  her  a  child  I"  she  muttered  to  her 
self,  walking  up  and  down  the  little  room. 

This  time  Imogen  approached  her,  and  laid  her 
hand  in  turn  upon  her  wrist, — 

"  You  are  not  deaf — look — the  bunch  on  your  neck 
has  fallen  off,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  folds  of  linen 
upon  the  floor,  which  Nonina  had  loosened  in  her 
jealous  rage. 

"  No,  I  am  not  deaf,  nor  deformed,  nor  blind,  nor 
weak.  You  are  in  my  power — obey  me.  You  are  in 
my  way — cross  my  path,  and  feel  my  hatred — " 

"  Nina,"  whispered  a  voice  at  the  door.  She  was 
suddenlv  silent.  She  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  and 
then  flinging  a  Spanish  mantilla  from  her  shoulders, 
she  said,  "  Here,  cover  yourself  with  that — obey  me  I" 
for  Imogen  turned  from  the  garment  with  loathing. 

"When  Nonina  left  the  apartment,  Imogen  stood 
like  a  young  Pythoness,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the 
garment  untouched,  and  her  whole  faculties  strained 
to  the  utmost  in  vain  efforts  to  fathom  the  extent  of 
the  evil  before  her.  She  shook  the  doors  and  the 


THE    SLAVE.  327 

windows,  but  they  resisted  her  utmost  force.  She 
approached  the  lattice  and  screamed  aloud — her  voice 
came  back  weak  and  powerless,  deadened  by  the 
rumbling  upon  the  pavements  below,  and  the  ever- 
noisy  tide  of  human  activity.  Wearied  with  her 
efforts,  and  comprehending  their  impotence,  she  stood 
holding  back  her  hair,  listening  if  any  sound  came  up 
from  the  apartments  below,  till  she  became  painfully 
conscious  of  the  beating  of  her  own  heart.  All  else 
was  far  from  her,  the  world  went  on,  and  she  was  lost 
to  it,  and  forever. 

She  had  long  fasted,  yet  she  felt  no  desire  for  food. 
Her  poor  little  heart  yearned  only  for  the  soft  hand 
of  a  mother  upon  her  head,  and  the  morning  benedic 
tion  of  a  father.  She  felt  weak  and  sorrowful,  now 
that  Konina  had  left  her :  she  sank  upon  her  knees, 
and  amid  tears  and  sobs  poured  out  her  whole  soul 
to  the  Father  above.  As  she  prayed  for  the  dear 
sorrowing  mother,  who  might  see  her  no  more  in  this 
world,  sobs  and  tears  choked  her  utterance,  and  she 
fell  all  along  the  floor  uttering  only  heart-breaking 
sobs,  and  the  cry  of,  "Mother,  poor  dear  mother !"  as 
if  all  her  grief  concentrated  itself  there. 

Nonina  returned  and  placed  toast  and  tea  upon  the 
table,  and  went  out  again,  silent  as  she  came.  Imogen 
hardly  knew  of  her  presence.  She  did  not  lift  her 
head,  she  did  not  cease  to  weep,  but  ejaculated  at  in- 


THE   NEWSBOY. 


tervals  her  childish  love.  It  seemed  as  if  suddenly 
the  world  had  become  black  to  her  ;  that  all  was  night 
within  and  without.  At  length  some  one  lifted  her 
from  the  floor  and  laid  her  upon  the  couch.  The  act 
was  gently  done,  but  she  did  not  look  up.  She  con 
tinued  to  weep  and  ejaculate,  as  if  her  little  being 
would  fade  away  in  the  agony  of  this  her  first  experi 
ence  of  sorrow. 

It  was  Cosmello  who  had  lifted  her  from  the  floor, 
and  who,  now  seated  in  the  large  chair,  watched  her 
in  silence.  There  was  no  look  of  remorse  in  his  dark 
face,  —  no  token  of  regret.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat, 
listening  to  the  low  w^ail  of  the  child,  and  then  he 
went  out  as  he  came,  silent,  unmoved,  impenetrable. 

Nonina  had  before  entered  and  thrown  the  man 
tilla  over  the  limbs  of  Imogen,  and  then  watched  the 
face  of  the  Spaniard  with  a  keen  look  of  jealous  scru 
tiny.  As  he  neared  the  door,  she  whispered, 

"Kemember,  Juan,  I  am  free,  in  this  country;  I 
am  free,  Juan,  and  I  will  be  so  in  spirit  and  in  fact." 

"  You  are  not  free  Nina,"  returned  the  Spaniard, 
closing  the  door  and  turning  the  lock,  "  you  are  not  and 
cannot  be  free  —  a  woman  never  was  nor  can  be  free. 
Her  love  makes  her  a  slave,  if  not  born  to  bondage 
else,"  and  he  bent  his  handsome  eyes,  admiringly  upon 
her  excited  face,  and  drew  out  a  long  tress  of  hair, 
and  playfully  cast  it  over  his  own  shoulders,  thus 
creating  a  beautiful  fetter  between  them.  And  Nina 


THE    SLAVE.  329 

smiled  again,  and  studied  as  woman  will  a  lover's  face, 
striving  to  read  its  hidden  import,  when  it  were  better 
did  she  throw  herself  upon  her  own  measureless 
womanhood,  and  look  to  God  instead. 

"  Yes,  you  can  go,  Nina,"  continued  the  Spaniard, 
"  you  can  go  and  denounce  me  to  the  authorities,  and 
condemn  me  to  a  prison,  perhaps  to  death.  Your 
jealousy  I  know  would  be  deadly — but  look  here, 
child,"  and  he  loosened  the  bodkin  from  her  hair  and 
it  fell  rippling  to  her  feet — the  wind  caught  it  from 
the  lattice,  and  its  threads  disengaged  themselves, 
floating  and  undulating,  gleaming  purple  in  the  light, 
as  only  a  Spanish  woman's  can,  till  she  seemed  a 
veiled  priestess  worshipping  at  her  shrine. 

"  Mine  was  but  a  mawkish  boy-love,  such  as  the 
man  rejects,  and  was  as  quickly  turned  to  hate.  One 
thread  of  this,"  and  he  kissed  the  tresses  fondly,  "is 
worth  more  than  a  thousand  of  those  loved  by  the  boy. 
I  tell  you,  Nina,  the  child  is  in  your  keeping ;  treat 
her  as  you  will,  but  mark  me,  I  will  know  what  you 
do.  There  is  a  something  in  the  child  that  awes  me  ; 
I  will  not  have  her  degraded.  And  mark  me,  she  shall 
not  be  sick,"  and  he  touched  his  finger  to  the  small, 
beautiful  chin,  and  lifted  it  up,  so  that  he  met  the  large 
eyes  of  the  girl,  while  he  raised  the  finger  of  the  right 
hand  as  one  would  admonish  a  child,  "  mark  me,  Nina, 
she  shall  not  die." 


330  THE    NEWSBOY, 

"  I  am  your  slave,  and  obey,"  answered  the  girl, 
without  a  change  of  feature,  at  the  terrible  suspicion 
the  words  implied. 

"  Not  my  slave,  Nina,"  responded  the  other,  "  leave 
me  if  you  will,  it  will  be  but  another  desolation  ;  an 
other  bitter  cup  of  which  I  have  drank  full  many." 

"  Oh  Juan,  cease — would  I  could  govern  this  vile 
blood,  for  your  sake.  I  only  know  to  love  you — I 
have  no  wise,  cold  maxims,  such  as  the  women  have 
in  this  clime.  I  have  but  one  world,  and  that  is  in 
your  love ;  that  lost,  all  is  lost ;  Nina  is  but  a  poor, 
broken  reed,  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  great  deep." 

"  My  poor  child !"  returned  Marcou,  and  it  may  be 
that  he  felt  annoyed  rather  than  pleased  at  the  fervent 
devotion  of  poor  Nonina.  It  may  be  he  thought  he 
returned  less  than  he  received.  It  may  be  he  wished 
she  were  less  absorbed  in  him,  that  there  might  be 
something  more  of  nobleness  or  of  dignity. 

Nonina  was  not  a  slave,  for  Marcou  had  years  be 
fore  given  her  her  freedom,  the  papers  to  that  effect 
being  still  in  her  own  possession ;  but  to  her  mind 
there  was  no  degradation  in  the  position  she  now  occu 
pied,  and  she  knew  of  no  other  to  which  she  could  be 
admitted.  She  had  thought  of  no  other  for  years,  and 
in  her  tropical  home,  where  conventionalism  is  so  little 
known,  the  favorite  Nonina  was  an  object  of  envy 
rather  than  of  censure. 


XLIY. 


THE  day  came  and  went,  and  still  Imogen  was 
confined  to  her  prison.  She  did  little  else  but  weep. 
Hour  after  hour  she  stood  at  the  low,  heavy-ironed 
window,  the  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes,  and  watch 
ing  the  passers-by  in  the  street  below.  The  song  of 
the  sweeper  came  up  loud  and  cheery,  — 

"  Sweep,  oh  sweep, 
From  the  bottom  to  the  top, 
"Without  a  ladder  or  a  rope, 

Sweep,  oh  sweep  ;" 

and  he  shook  his  dirty  rags,  brandished  his  scraper, 
and  glanced  and  swung  himself  right  and  left,  the 
image  of  hilarity. 

Then  came  by  the  yeast  girl,  singing  in  a  clear 
sonorous  voice,  —  • 

"  Yeast,  nice  fresh  yeast, 
Here  's  your  nice  fresh  yeast." 

but  she  didn't  glance  up  at  the  top  of  the  house  as  the 


332  THE    NEWSBOY. 

sweeper  Lad  done,  and  therefore  Imogen's  heart  beat 
no  quicker  for  her  coming.  The  ice  man  came,  the 
milk  man  yelled,  but  they  all  looked  as  did  the  yeast 
girl,  down  to  the  basement  windows,  not  up  to  the 
roof. 

Then  came  an  artisan  with  tools  in  hand,  and  he 
stood  over  the  way  looking  steadfastly  upward.  Imo 
gen's  heart  beat  wildly  now ;  she  reached  her  little 
fingers  through  the  irons,  and  screamed  so  loudly  that 
it  seemed  a  miracle  he  did  not  hear ;  but  he  was  only 
looking  at  the  architectural  mouldings,  calculating  the 
heighth  and  breadth  of  the  cornice,  and  he  could  not 
see  the  pale,  agonized  face  pressed  frantically  against 
the  irons.  She  was  too  far  above  the  street  for  her 
voice  to  penetrate  the  world  below.  She  tore  a  ribbon 
from  her  dress  and  fastened  it  to  the  bars ;  the  wind 
caused  it  to  float  outward — his  eye  is  arrested ;  he  is 
about  to  go, — he  turns  back — surely,  surely  he  will 
study  its  meaning.  He  is  a  young,  handsome  work 
man  ;  he  smiles — he  examines  the  house ;  he  smiles 
again — glances  over  his  shoulder,  with  another  smile. 
He  is  gone. 

Imogen  left  the  ribbon  upon  the  bar ;  presently  the 
girl,  Nonina,  in  her  wen  and  shabby  dress,  crossed  to 
the  other  side  of  the  street  and  looked  up  to  the  room ; 
her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  bit  of  silk,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  she  returned.  She  entered  the  room  and 


THE    PEKIL.  333 

tore  the  ribbon  from  the  bar,  and  now  she  examined 
the  child's  dress  more  carefully,  the  laces  and  trim 
mings,  and  marks  by  which  she  might  be  identified. 
She  was  silent  and  cross.  She  went  out,  and  brought 
long  garments,  so  long  they  encumbered  the  feet,  and 
forced  them  upon  the  child,  and  then  left  the  room. 

When  she  had  gone,  Imogen  again  took  her  place 
at  the  window.  It  was  now  twilight,  people  were  return 
ing  from  toil,  and  the  gay  and  fashionable  were  walking 
or  riding,  for  the  air  was  fresh  and  cool.  She  watched 
the  carriages  as  they  rolled  by,  but  the  dark  Spanish- 
kept  house,  with  its  blinds  always  closed,  attracted  no 
eyes.  Listlessly  she  looked  upon  the  flowers  in  the 
little  triangular  spot  in  front.  She  saw  the  children 
leaning  against  the  rails,  and  ragged  and  dirty  as  they 
were,  she  envied  them  their  freedom.  All  at  once  she 
beheld  her  father  and  Charles  Gardner  pass  below. 
Her  father  was  thin  and  bent,  Charles  seemed  pale  and 
very  weak,  for  he  walked  slowly ;  both  were  apparently 
silent. 

Oh,  was  there  nothing  to  attract  their  eyes  up 
ward  ?  Imogen  screamed  again,  she  tore  the  hair  in 
masses  from  her  head  and  scattered  it  without.  "  Fa 
ther,  Charles,"  she  cried,  but  they  passed  slowly  on 
ward.  The  noise  brought  Nonina  to  the  room.  Imo 
gen  heard  her  approach,  and  placing  herself  to  one  side 
she  darted  past  her  as  the  door  opened,  and  rushed 


334  THE    NEWSBOY. 

along  the  hall,  but  her  long  robes  impeded  her  feet, 
and  she  fell  to  the  floor,  the  blood  bursting  from  her 
lips. 

Marcou  lifted  her  from  the  ground  and  bore  her  to 
an  inner  room.  She  was  pale  as  are  the  dying,  and 
her  life  seemed  oozing  with  the  blood  that  issued  from 
her  mouth  at  every  breath.  ISTonina  watched  her  in  si 
lence,  and,  it  may  be,  hoped  that  all  would  end  here — 
it  may  be  she  was  tired  of  ministering  to  the  vengeance 
of  her  lover,  when  its  object  excited  so  much  her 
jealousy.  Marcou  was  no  mean  physician,  as  all 
the  planters  of  the  South  and  of  the  "West  India  is 
lands  find  it  necessary  to  understand  something  of  a 
science  so  often  essential  in  the  management  of  living 
*  chattels.' 

He  felt  her  pulse,  and  administered  to  the  attack 
with  skill  and  precision.  As  the  night  wore  on  he 
sat  by  her  side,  calm  and  remorseless,  not  a  feature 
giving  evidence  that  any  human  emotion  stirred  in  his 
bosom.  Nonina  moved  up  and  down  uneasily.  Once 
she  leaned  upon  the  shoulder  of  Marcou,  but  he 
slipped  it  aside  ;  she  knelt  down  at  his  feet,  he  did  not 
notice  the  humble  position,  nor  the  endearment  in  the 
slight  pressure  of  the  hand  that  hid  itself  in  his. 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  face  of  the  child,  and 
his  ear  listening  to  her  faint  breathing.  "She  may 
die,"  he  whispered  at  length,  and  sank  back  in  his 


THE    PERIL.  335 

cliair.  "  I  had  thought  a  child  might  be  easily  man 
aged." 

"  She  is  no  child,  Juan.  I  hope  she  may  die,  I 
pray  all  the  saints,  and — " 

"  Silence,  girl,"  exclaimed  Marcou,  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder.  "  Would  you  lead  me  to  the  scaf 
fold  ?  There  is  but  a  step  between  me  and  public  in 
famy.  She  must  not  die  in  this  accursed  city  ;  help 
her  out  of  it,  and  then  she  is  in  your  keeping.  Save 
her  life  now,  now,  Nonina,  for  my  sake  ;"  he  added 
more  softly. 

"  Juan,  I  distrust  you.  Tell  me  you  will  not  love 
that  girl ;  tell  me  you  will  sell  her  into  bondage  ;  you 
will  give  her  to  some  one  who  will  take  her  from  my 
presence ;  tell  me  this,  Juan,  and  I  will  do  all  you  bid 
me  do." 

Juan  drew  the  kneeling  girl  to  his  bosom,  and 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Yes,  kiss  me  there,  Juan,  upon  my  brow;  it  shall 
be  a  seal  in  God's  eyes ;  do  you  swear  to  do  this,  Juan  ? 
Her  presence  will  drive  me  mad,  Juan,  it  converts  me 
to  a  fiend.  Your  old  love  for  the  mother  will  revive 
in  the  child.  I  know  it  will.  Swear  that  she  shall  be 
mine  and  I  will  save  her  this  time,  but  when  we  are 
in  Cuba,  I  shall  do  my  will  upon  her  ;  shall  I  not?" 

She  spoke  rapidly,  half  bending  over  to  the  eyes 


386  THE    NEWSBOY. 

of  her  lover,  one  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  the  other 
clasped  in  his. 

Marcou,  even,  recoiled  from  the  exhibition  of  the 
same  deadly  hatred  which  lurked  in  his  own  bosom 
when  it  presented  itself  in  a  woman's  shape — he  dared 
not  make  the  promise.  Something  within  himself 
arose  and  forbade  him.  Nonina  saw  his  hesitation, 
and  she  tossed  his  hand  from  her. 

"  You  will  not  promise,  because  I  have  spoken 
truth,"  she  muttered. 

"  You  have  skill,  Nina,  my  own  great,  glorious 
child  of  evil,  you  have  skill ;  use  it  once  now,  for 
Juan's  sake,  and  he  will  not  be  ungrateful."  He  ex 
tended  his  hand  toward  her  while  he  spoke,  and  she 
threw  herself  upon  his  bosom  ;  for  when  did  woman 
ever  resist  the  low,  pleading  appeal  of  the  man  whom 
she  loves ! 

She  left  the  room  a  few  moments  and  then  returned 
bearing  crucibles,  and  elixirs  of  various  kinds ;  she 
poured  some  upon  a  napkin  with  which  she  enveloped 
the  chest — a  few  drops  upon  the  tongue  stayed  the 
flow  of  blood,  and  Imogen  at  length  sunk  to  a  quiet 
slumber. 

A  few  hours  afterwards  the  remorseless  hands  of 
Nonina  severed  all  the  beautiful  golden  locks  of  Imogen 
from  her  head.  And  then,  a  skilfully -applied  ingredient 
converted  what  was  left  to  a  deep  black.  Under  pre- 


THE    PEKIL.  337 

text  of  bathing  her  face,  a  dark  mixture  was  applied, 
which  stained  her  lovely  white  skin  to  brown,  so  that 
no  friend  of  the  child's  could  have  recognized  her 
under  the  change. 

Marcou  had  said  he  should  go  to  Europe,  and  such 
was  the  belief  of  the  neighbors  ;  but  in  the  meanwhile 
he  had  procured  a  barque,  which  having  manned  en 
tirely  with  sailors  and  officers  of  his  own  country,  and 
having  hoisted  the  Spanish  flag,  he  set  sail  for  Cuba, 
leaving  the  furniture  and  other  effects  of  the  house  to 
be  disposed  of  by  an  agent.  The  boxes  and  bales  of 
Dona  Isabella  returned  once  more  to  her  beloved 
Cuba,  and  Pomp  and  Dinah,  clad  in  their  gayest  colors, 
grinned,  and  danced,  and  whooped,  at  the  thought  of 
their  tropical  home. 

As  they  went  to  the  vessel  bearing  a  large  hamper 
between  them,  carefully  covered,  they  swung  it  so 
violently  and  vociferated  their  joy  so  loudly,  that  peo 
ple  turned  back  to  wonder  at  their  merriment ;  and  the 
deaf  woman  with  the  wen,  who  followed  on  behind 
them,  more  than  once  rated  them  soundly  for  their 
noise.  It  was  certain  that  she  eyed  the  hamper  un 
easily,  and  hurried  on  the  black  merry  pair,  who, 
happy  in  the  present,  understood  nothing  of  the  mis 
eries  or  the  degradation  of  their  race. 

Upon  reaching  the  vessel,  the  hamper  was  borne 
carefully  to  the  cabin.  Dona  Isabella  was  already 

15 


338  THE    NEWSBOY. 

there ;  she  opened  her  eyes  and  fanned  herself  briefly, 
as  Nonina  lifted  Imogen  into  her  berth.  At  length 
she  crossed  herself,  as  a  good  Catholic  does  at  the  sight 
of  what  is  new  or  unexpected,  and  then  resumed  her 
fan  again. 


XLV. 


IT  did  n't  take  Flashy  Jack  long  to  replenish,  his 
pockets  after  having  emptied  them  out  in  behalf  of 
Kack-o'-bones  and  Dady,  but  the  illness  of  Bob,  and 
his  new  and  unexpected  position  as  the  favored  guest 
of  a  wealthy  family,  was  a  thing  at  once  embarrassing 
and  strange  to  him,  as  much  so  as  had  been  to  Bob, 
his  own  sudden  metamorphosis  into  an  actor.  It  per 
plexed  him  greatly  :  he  wished  to  see  his  friend,  but 
he  felt  always  out  of  place  and  uncomfortable  in 
mounting  the  splendid  staircase  to  do  so.  To  avoid 
this,  Maggie  was  despatched  to  make  inquiries  at  the 
kitchen  door.  Maggie  never  ventured  further,  for  she 
had  a  certain  dislike  to  Bob,  which  she  could  not  well 
overcome,  ever  since  the  time  when  she  had  felt  her 
self-love  wounded  by  his  indifference  to  her  charms, 
when  they  were  both  children  in  years,  though  old  in 
the  rough  usages  of  life. 


340  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Flashy  Jack  was  leaning  his  foot  upon  the  hub  of 
a  carriage  wheel,  near  the  Jefferson  Market,  where  so 
many  streets  and  avenues  converge,  and  the  great  tall 
tower,  composed  of  timber,  supports  the  alarm-bell  of 
the  district.  He  had  waited  some  little  time,  and  was 
whiling  away  the  interval  by  slapping  his  polished 
boots  with  a  light  cane,  teasing  little  Yic,  and  whist 
ling  "  Nelly  Ely,"  when  the  coachman  leaned  over  the 
box  and  recognized  him  : 

"  How  are  you  ?"  both  exclaimed  at  once,  for  it 
was  the  former  coachman  of  Cosmello. 

"  Improving  your  young  mind,  I  see,"  observed 
Flashy  Jack,  as  the  other  folded  up  a  newspaper. 

"  Yes,  I  was  looking  over  the  ship  news  to  see  if  J 
could  find  anything  of  the  Cosmellos.  I  '11  be  hanged 
if  1  can  find  out  a  word  about  them." 

"  Well,  I  suspect  that  Spaniard  was  a  d d 

rascal,"  answered  the  other.  "  I  always  coupled  him 
with  the  abduction  of  that  child,  and  hang  me,  Peter, 
if  I  don't  believe  you  think  so  too." 

Peter  threw  himself  into  an  attitude — "  Look  you 
here,  Sir,  I  allow  no  man  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way. 
You  impeach  me,  Sir,  when —  " 

"Oh!  get  out,"  answered  Flashy  Jack,  coolly 
blowing  the  dust  from  the  nail  of  his  thumb  which  he 
was  paring.  "You  know,  Peter,  what  you  do  know, 
and  it 's  my  opinion  you  're  very  much  of  a  scamp." 


KETRIBUTION.  341 

Peter  was  down  from  his  coach-box  in  a  jiffy  ;  lie 
made  a  show  of  rolling  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  stuck  out 
his  little  heels  defiantly,  and  switched  up  his  trousers 
till  the  red  tops  of  his  boots  appeared  below  them. 
Flashy  Jack  did  n't  abate  in  the  least  the  attention 
which  his  thumb-nail  demanded  at  his  hands.  On  the 
contrary,  he  rather  grew  more  absorbed  in  the  matter, 
and  did  n't  even  take  his  boot  from  the  wheel-hub. 

"Don't  fret  your  gizzard  in  hot  weather,  Peter,  it 's 
bad  for  the  health,"  he  said. 

"Come  out  here,  come  out,"  cried  Peter,  spitting 
upon  his  hands. 

"  Have  done  your  nonsense,  Peter,  and  own  up," 
continued  Flashy  Jack,  not  deigning  to  glance  at  the 
other. 

Peter  gave  a  spring  into  the  air,  by  which  he 
looked  all  at  once  as  if  composed  of  innumerable  arms 
and  legs,  and  nothing  else,  but  he  came  down  in  quite 
a  harmless  manner  just  where  he  went  up. 

"  Come,  no  more  figuring,  Peter,  or  I  shall  grow 
wrothy.  You  had  something  to  do  with  that  devilish 
trick — so  Bob  believes,  and  I  too.  You  'd  better  own 
up,  and  done  with  it." 

Peter  grew  ashy  pale  at  this,  and  he  sprang  upon 
Flashy  Jack,  butting  forward  his  head  in  a  threatening 
manner,  springing  up  into  the  air,  and  butting  as  he 
came  down.  Flashy  Jack  put  out  his  foot  and  tripped 


342  THE    NEWSBOY. 

him  up,  but  at  the  same  moment  Peter  had  thrust 
himself  against  the  sharp  open  knife  which  the  former 
held  in  his  hand,  and  he  fell  heavily  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"  That 's  science,"  shouted  the  crowd,  applauding 
the  ease  and  dexterity  of  the  movement  on  the  part  of 
Flashy  Jack. 

But  Peter  lay  motionless  upon  his  face.  Flashy 
Jack  seeing  Maggie  approach,  moved  rapidly  along 
the  street  to  meet  her.  A  yell  as  of  a  thousand  wild 
beasts,  and  the  tramp  of  innumerable  feet,  caused  him 
to  look  back. 

"  Stop  the  murderer,  he  has  killed  a  man  I  stop 
him !  stop  him !"  was  echoed  by  a  hundred  tongues. 

Scarcely  could  the  youth  comprehend  the  meaning 
of  what  he  heard.  He  did  not  at  first  realize  that  he 
was  the  one  thus  designated,  and  he  moved  onward  at 
a  brisk  pace,  till  a  heavy  blow  from  an  officer  arrested 
him.  He  was  dragged  back  to  the  spot  where  Peter 
still  lay,  and  where  the  people  were  holding  up  the 
bloody  knife  with  which  the  deed  had  been  done. 
Load  cries  and  imprecations  followed  him,  but  Flashy 
Jack  could  n't  well  realize  that  he  was  the  one  im 
peached.  So  little  malice  had  been  in  his  heart,  so  little 
attention  had  he  paid  to  the  imbecile  rage  of  Peter, 
that  when  he  saw  him  lying  there  with  the  blood  flood 
ing  from  a  great  vein  in  his  neck,  and  all  appearance 
of  life  gone,  he  looked  on  amazed  and  horror-struck. 


KETRIBUTION.  343 

"  Look  at  him — look  at  the  hardened  wretch ;  he 
doesn't  care.  There  's  the  knife  that  he  stabbed  with. 
Killed  him  like  a  flash  of  lightning  ;  cool  about  it — 
never  minded  it  no  more'n  if  it  had  been  a  dog. 
Walked  off  whistling  Nelly  Ely,  to  meet  his  gal, 
just  as  if  nothing  in  the  world  had  happened." 

The  tumult  increased ;  a  dense  mass  of  people 
thronged  the  spot.  There  was  jostling,  and  shouting, 
and  screaming.  Maggie  clung  wildly  to  the  arm  of 
Flashy  Jack,  never  for  a  moment  doubting  his  inno 
cence. 

"Look  at  her,"  cried  one  of  the  crowd,  "that's  the 
murderer's  gal." 

Maggie  turned  sharply  round,  "  Yes,  look  at  me, 
you  fools,  he  's  no  more  of  a  murderer  than  you  are. 
Jack,  dear  Jack,"  she  added  more  softly,  "  how  did  it 
happen  ?  Tell  me  Jack,  will  you  not  speak  to  your 
poor  girl  ?"  and  she  drew  her  shawl  up  to  hide  her 
tears  from  the  multitude,  who  only  derided  and  hooted 
at  her.  All  the  way  to  the  Police  Station  the  people 
yelled  and  shouted,  and  even  the  stout  nerves  of 
Maggie  gave  way  to  terror  as  she  looked  far  and 
near  and  saw  the  hideous,  cruel  faces  of  the  vast 
multitude  glaring  upon  them. 

"  Kun,  Jack,  run,"  she  cried,  pulling  him  by  the 
arm.  "  They  will  kill  us,  they  will ;  hear  them,  Jack, 
they  will  tear  us  to  pieces." 


344  THE    NEWSBOY. 

She  was  answered  by  jeers  and  hisses. 

"  Good  enough  for  you.  Hang  'em — lynch  'em 
both,"  shouted  the  mob. 

Jack  moved  along  mechanically,  as  if  in  a  terrible 
dream. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Jack,  won't  you  speak  to  me  ?" 
cried  the  girl,  hiding  her  face  in  her  shawl  to  keep  the 
sight  of  the  crowd  out. 

At  length  they  reached  the  Police  Station.  A 
brief  examination  by  the  official  left  no  doubt  upon 
his  mind  as  to  the  entire  guilt  of  the  prisoner,  and  he 
was  conveyed  to  the  Tombs. 

Maggie  still  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  youth.  All 
the  efforts  of  the  officers  could  not  force  her  away. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Jack,  speak  to  me,"  she  cried, 
wringing  her  hands,  and  gasping  for  breath.  "Do 
tell  me,  Jack,  I  did  n't  bring  you  to  this.  Have  I  done 
anything,  Jack,  to  bring  it  on  ?" 

Jack's  lips  were  ashy  white,  and  dry,  and  parched. 
He  could  not  take  in  the  scene,  and  he  put  his  arm 
around  the  girl  and  kissed  her  forehead.  Poor 
Maggie,  overcome  by  this  tenderness,  fainted  at  his 
feet.  The  officers,  pushed  her  aside  with  a  brutal  jest, 
and  the  crowd,  which  had  forced  itself  into  the  lobby, 
gave  way  to  a  loud  shout  at  witnessing  her  distress. 

"When  she  at  length  lifted  herself  from  the  ground, 
the  iron  door  had  closed  upon  Flashy  Jack,  and  she 


RETRIBUTION.  345 

looked  around,  half  kneeling  as  she  looked,  holding 
back  her  hair,  and  her  large,  lustrous  eyes  searching 
upon  every  side  for  one  look  of  kindness  or  sympathy. 
There  was  not  one.  Her  human  heart  shrunk  inward 
with  terrible  pangs.  All  that  had  been  holiest  in  her 
poor,  vagrant,  uncared-for  life,  seemed  suddenly  con 
verted  into  crime. 

"  Are  you  married,  gal  ?"  asked  an  officer. 

Maggie  shook  her  head,  still  kneeling,  too  faint 
and  weak  to  rise. 

"  Get  out,  you  dirty  trollop,  what  do  you  come  here 
for  with  your  noise  ?  Do  you  think  the  law 's  goin' 
to  countenance  your  doin's  ?  Get  out  with  you,"  and 
he  followed  her  in  his  virtuous  indignation  down  the 
heavy  stone  steps. 

The  brutality  of  the  officer  was  reiterated  by  the 
crowd  without,  which  pressed  upon  her  tottering  steps 
down  through  Centre  street,  shouting  and  jeering,  and 
tossing  missiles  upon  her. 

"  There  goes  the  murderer's  gal,"  they  vociferated, 
tossing  at  first'  apples,  and  nuts,  and  pebbles  idly 
against  her  shoulders,  from  which  the  shawl  had  fall 
en,  and  left  them,  fair  and  dimpled,  exposed  to  the 
gaze  of  the  mob.  Growing  more  and  more  excited, 
as  the  numbers  increased  and  the  multitude  went  on, 
they  began  piously  to  stone  her  with  stones,  as  the 
Jews  did  in  the  olden  time.  Maggie  was  too  weak  to 

15* 


346  THE    NEWSBOY. 

run,  the  anguish  in  lier  heart  was  too  great  for  her  to 
feel  any  external  pain,  and  although  the  blood  flowed 
from  her  arms  and  neck,  she  made  no  complaint,  she 
did  not  turn  her  head  nor  weep,  nor  remonstrate,  but 
went  on,  a  Magdalen  loving  much,  and  sorrowing 
much,  and  man,  the  cause  of  all,  hunting  her  to  the 
death. 

The  old  paralytic  woman  at  the  head  of  Chambers 
street  saw  her  approach,  blind  as  she  was ;  she  saw 
the  blood  falling  from  her  wounds.  Poor,  old,  miser 
able  sinner  as  she  might  have  been,  she  opened  her 
lank,  withered  arms,  and  Maggie  fell  within  them. 
The  old  woman  tried  to  speak,  but  her  lips  would  not 
obey.  Her  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth, 
and  she  shook  her  gray  locks  from  side  to  side,  and 
there  was  warning  in  them.  Oh  I  she  mumbled  and 
shook,  and  looked  this  way  and  that,  and  the  rude 
men  shrank  away  with  shame,  and  left  her  to  her  little 
stand  where  she  sat  with  the  head  of  Maggie  in  her 
lap,  she  hardly  able  to  breathe,  and  only  showing  that 
she  breathed  by  her  low  sobs. 

Slowly,  slowly  the  great  multitude,  (presumed  to 
be  without  sin,  by  the  good  will  with  which  they  cast 
stones,  and  uttered  imprecations  against  it,)  went  away, 
one  by  one,  taking  a  last  look  at  the  poor  Magdalen 
where  she  lay  upon  the  cold  stone  pavement,  her  head 
buried  in  the  lap  of  the  only  pitying  heart  she  had 


EETRIBUTION.  347 

found  in  her  great  need.  One  poor,  old,  paralytic 
form,  bearing  a  pitying  human  heart,  a  human,  woman- 
heart,  had  been  more  powerful  than  all  the  brute  force 
of  that  great  multitude. 

Eeader,  we  boast  of  warm,  beating  hearts,  through 
which  flows  a  red,  rich  current  of  vital  blood,  swaying 
and  circling  through  every  vein,  as  the  sap  in  the 
spring-time  penetrates  all  the  cells  and  arteries  of  the 
strong  woodland  tree ;  have  we  ever,  you  and  I,  placed 
this  vital  heart  as  a  bulwark  to  ward  off  the  evil 
doers?  as  a  loving  wall  in  defence  of  our  suffering 
kind  ?  Have  we,  as  did  this  old  paralytic  heart,  stood 
up  as  best  we  could,  to  screen  the  persecuted  and  suf 
fering  ?  God  made  the  weak  old  heart  a  tower  of 
strength  in  that  day ;  what  might  not  your  red  living 
heart  and  mine  become,  if  awake  like  hers  to  human 
necessities  ? 


XLVI. 

gihmrnn* 

BOB  heard  the  slow,  labored  ascent  of  Kack-o'- 
bones  up  the  sumptuous  hall  and  staircase,  and  knew 
that  she  bore  his  little  protege^  in  her  arms,  but  he  was 
not  prepared  to  see  her  in  her  pretty,  new  pink  dress, 
and  cunning  red  slippers,  which  the  good  creature  had 
provided  after  the  visit  of  Flashy  Jack.  The  luxuri 
ant  hair  of  the  child,  dark  and  curling,  fell  over  her 
plump  hard  shoulders,  and  swept  her  red  cheeks  upon 
either  side.  Her  forehead  was  low,  but  fairly  moulded, 
and  her  rich,  full  eyes  were  soft,  and  yet  dazzlingly 
bright.  She  was  a  large,  handsome  child,  in  the  very 
perfection  of  health. 

Bob  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  Dady  kissed  him 
over  and  over,  and'  hugged  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
laughing  with  a  pretty  giggling  laugh  like  the  joy  of 
a  young  animal. 

"  I  'm  thinking  you  will  keep  her  here,"  said  Kack- 
o'-bones,  looking  around  upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dins- 


DILEMMAS.  349 

moor,  and  displaying  at  the  same  time  the  little  stock 
in  hand  which  constituted  the  wardrobe  of  Dady. 

Bob's  pale  face  reddened  with  shame.  ""We  are 
no  beggars,  mother,"  he  said;  "  we  has  a  good  home, 
and  we  will  keep  it."  And  seeing  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
about  to  speak,  he  added,  "  We  is  thankful,  Sir,  we 
is." 

Fannie  motioned  for  the  child  to  be  brought  to 
the  bed,  and  he  did  as  she  desired,  and  then  for  the 
first  time  observed  the  kitten  of  Imogen,  which  Dady 
kept  hugged  up  under  one  arm.  Fannie  saw  it  at  the 
same  time,  and  the  tears  fell  from  her  eyes,  softly  fall 
ing,  while  her  pale  hands  caressed,  first  the  kitten, 
and  then  the  glossy  locks  of  the  child,  which  kept  her 
large  eyes  fixed  wonderingly  upon  the  sweet,  wan 
face. 

Kack-o'-bones  arose  to  leave.  "  We  will  keep  the 
baby,  George,  will  we  not  ?"  asked  Fannie. 

"  I  could  n't  give  up  Dady,"  answered  Bob  in  a 
low  voice,  speaking  to  Mr.  Dinsmoor.  "  I  could  n't 
give  her  up — 'cause  why?  we  must  love  something, 
and  the  love  for  a  child  is  higher-like  than  the  love 
for  an  animal.  I  thinks  too,  Sir,  you  'd  find  many 
little  creters  with  no  parents,  what  would  be  glad  to 
come.  But  Dady,  Sir,  is  all  as  if  she  was  my  own 
child.  I's  got  used  to  her — I  works  better  for 
thinkin'  of  her — it  makes  a  man  of  me,  Sir,  to  have 


350  THE   NEWSBOY. 

her  lookin'  to  me  for  her  bread  and  other  fixin's. 
He 's  a  poor  feller,  Sir,  that  cannot  support  more  nor 
himself." 

Thus  did  the  Newsboy  plead  for  the  privilege  of 
keeping  the  little  waif,  as  if  work  and  responsibility 
were  privileges,  as  they  are  to  great  hearts. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Sir,  if  I  speak  out  my  mind 
plain-like,  seein'  I 's  well  enough  to  go  home  now,  and 
take  Dady  home,  and  Kack-o'-bones,  and  set  up  house 
keeping,  as  a  man  as  is  a  man  should  always  do  ?" 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  looked  approval,  and  Bob,  his  eyes 
glowing  under  the  beatings  of  his  great  heart,  went 
on,— 

"  I 's  thinkin',  Sir,  your  house  is  very  large,  so 
many  rooms,  so  many  things,  very  nice,  and  very 
handsome,  I'm  bound  to  say,  'though  I  don't  know 
the  names  nor  the  use  of  'em ;  but  I 's  thinkin', 
Sir,"  and  the  color  went  and  came  upon  the  hon 
est  cheek  of  the  Newsboy,  as  the  dolphin  glows 
in  the  ebb-time  of  its  life,  "  I 's  thinkin',  Sir,  how 
many  might  be  made  happy  in  such  a  house.  I 's 
thinkin',  Sir,  perhaps  God  gave  us  the  fortun',  that  we 
might  deal  out  to  them  that  is  too  weak,  and  too  igno 
rant  to  work, — and  he  gives  us  the  learnin'  and  the 
great  hearts,  that  we  might  the  better  teach.  I 's  ig 
norant,  Sir.  Minnie  and  I  was  talkin'  of  this  when 
she  died.  Once,  Sir,  she  put  her  hand  towards  heaven 


DILEMMAS.  351 

and  said,  '  Look,  Bob,  look,  I  see  a  beautiful  man, 
leanin'  on  a  cross,  and  he  smiles  upon  us,'  and  then 
she  smiled,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  my  heart  as  she 
always  did  when  she  thought  she  should  die."  Bob 
always  was  obliged  to  stop  when  he  spoke  of  Minnie, 
till  he  grew  too  great  for  his  grief. 

"  Little  children,  Sir,  is  like  flowers  and  picters,  and 
I  think  a  house  looks  more  human-like  when  they 's  in 
it.  I  could  n't  lose  Dady,  Sir,  but  I  sees  every  day 
children  that  '11  grow  up  to  the  prison  and  the  gallows 
unless  somethin'  is  done  for  'em !" 

"  Stay  here  then,  Bob,  stay  with  us,  you  and  the 
child,"  said  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  pressing  the  boy  to  his 
heart. 

The  Newsboy  grew  paler  even  than  before,  at  this 
unexpected  demonstration,  for  Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  been 
kind,  but  cold  hitherto,  and  his  manner  had  rather  re 
pelled  than  invited  the  confidence  of  the  former.  He 
was  embarrassed  also,  but  as  he  was  both  plain  and 
out-spoken,  which  are  two  great  traits  of  manhood,  he 
replied, 

"  When  I  said  this  house  might  make  so  many 
happy,  I  did  n't  mean  I  wished  to  be  one  of  'em,  Sir, 
though  you 's  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  it ;  and  Minnie,  Sir,  was  Minnie  here  she  'd 
know  how  to  say  thankful  things  better  nor  I,  for  she 
had  a  pretty  way  nat'ral  to  her.  But  I 's  thankful,  Sir, 


352  THE    NEWSBOY. 

I  is,"  and  there  was  more  in  the  tone  and  looks  than 
in  the  words  of  the  Newsboy. 

And  here  let  me  say,  it  is  one  proof  of  the  infre- 
quency  of  good  works  in  the  world,  that  we  have  such 
a  vocabulary  of  thanks.  That  is  a  poor  order  of  a 
soul  which  is  expecting  gratitude  from  its  beneficiaries. 

"  Alas,  the  gratitude  of  man 
Has  oftener  left  me  mourning." 

Yes,  mourning  that  so  much  is  needful  to  be  done, 
and  the  opportunity  for  doing  is  so  limited.  We  step 
down  from  the  godhead  when  we  ask  returns.  "We 
are  like  God  when  we  give. 

"  You  will  stay  with  us  then,  Bob,"  said  Mr.  Dins- 
moor  with  the  same  warmth  of  manner.  "  This  house 
is  your  home,  and  Dady's  also." 

Fannie  smiled,  a  sweet,  saint-like  smile,  and  looked 
the  same  petition.  But  Bob,  generally  so  candid, 
found  it  difficult  to  speak  now,  and  was  silent  for  some 
little  time,  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet.  At 
length  he  raised  them  to  the  face  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor, 
and  I  must  say  that  at  this  time  our  Newsboy  was 
handsome  and  manly  looking,  for  his  illness  had 
soothed  away  the  care-worn  look ;  he  had  grown  tall, 
and  his  companionship  with  a  refined  family  had  given 
a  higher  tone  to  his  manner,  without  detracting  from 
a  certain  quiet  dignity  always  belonging  to  him. 


DILEMMAS.  353 

Charles  Gardner,  who  had  come  in  from  his  books, 
was  not  more  striking  in  his  appearance  than  Bob.  If 
the  former  had  more  grace,  and  finish  of  exterior, 
there  was  so  much  of  manly  candor,  of  self-reliance, 
and  self-sustainment  in  the  air  of  the  latter,  that  he  at 
once  riveted  interest  and  attention.  You  felt  there 
was  a  solidity,  a  force,  and  reliability  about  him  which 
nothing  could  tempt,  nothing  could  swerve  from  its 
moorings. 

Fannie  looked  at  the  two  young  men,  and  she 
smiled  softly  upon  Charles,  but  to  Bob  her  look  was 
as  if  she  said,  "  I  rest  here ;  here  is  help,  here  is  pow 
er,  here  is  heart  and  purpose.  If  human  effort  can 
achieve,  here  is  the  source." 

The  embarrassment  of  Bob  was  rather  increased 
than  allayed  by  the  manner  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  but  he 
replied, 

"  It 's  the  nater  of  people  to  want  to  go  where  they 
feels  best,  Sir.  I  'm  bound  to  say,  you 's  very  kind, 
both  of  you  is  very  kind ;  was  Minnie  here  she  'd  tell 
YOU  so  better  nor  I  can ;  and  was  Minnie  here  I  should 
say,  take  her,  Sir,  for  I  loved  that  little  'un  in  a  way 
that  I  'd  die,  Sir,  to  make  her  happy.  She  was  a  born 
angel,  she  was.  But,  Sir,  I  sees  Flashy  Jack  is  n't 
half  himself  when  he  comes  here ;  dashing,  good- 
hearted  Jack,  what  is  a  man  in  his  way  amongst  folks 
he 's  used  to,  is  n't  half  so  much  Jack  when  he  comes 


354  THE    NEWSBOY. 

here.  I  sees  it ;  lie  holds  in  his  heels  as  it  were,  and 
crimps  in  his  elbows  some,  and  speaks  soft-like  ;  now 
that  is  n't  Jack  at  all.  So  I  thinks,  Sir,  it  would  be 
with  me.  I  can  work,  Sir,  I  loves  to  work,  I 's  proud 
of  work,  Sir.  I  thinks  them  that  wants  everything 
done  for  'em,  and  does  nothing  for  themselves,  is  poor 
sneaks,  sneaks  as  is  sneaks  and  nothing  but  sneaks. 
Now,  Sir,  if  I  lived  in  this  great  house,  I  with  no 
learnin',  no  gentleman-like  ways,  I  should  feel  mean, 
Sir.  When  Bob's  out  to  work,  sellin'  his  papers,  takin' 
care  of  his  family,  and  doin'  the  best  he  can,  he  feels 
like  a  man,  Sir." 

"  You  shall  have  learning,  Bob,  I  will  be  a  friend 
to  you  in  the  best  way.  You  shall  be  taught  every 
thing  to  render  you  an  accomplished  merchant ;  and 
let  me  tell  you,  Bob,  you  have  a  capital  in  your  own 
honest,  manly  integrity,  worth  millions  in  a  city  like 
this.  Whoever  helps  you  helps  himself,  Bob." 

The  Newsboy  extended  his  hand  cordially  to  the 
speaker,  as  if  he  had  found  his  equal.  He  looked 
upon  Mr.  Dinsmoor  with  an  admiring  respect,  such  as  he 
had  never  before  felt  for  him,  as  if  all  at  once  the  crust 
of  conventionalism  had  peeled  off,  and  he  saw  a  man. 

"When  you  speak  of  the  learnin',  Sir,"  he  replied, 
"  you  comes  very  near  to  me.  Rack-o'-bones  has  been 
a  teachin'  of  me,  and  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  learns  fast, 
seem'  I  wants  the  learnin'  as  I  wants  bread." 


DILEMMAS.  355 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Bob,  and  I  will  learn  of  you 
also ;  learn  the  uses  of  life,  and  the  uses  of  wealth 
through  your  great  heart,  Bob." 

The  Newsboy's  look  deepened  to  a  cordial  and 
thorough  admiration  of  his  friend. 

"  I  thinks,  Sir,  God  designed  you  for  something 
handsome,  he  did.  I  thinks  when  we  goes  down  into 
our  own  busoms,  as  it  were,  we  does  good  works,  and 
sees  good  pushing  itself  out  of  us,  jest  as  I  've  seen 
the  hydrant  kiver  pushed  off  by  the  Croton.  Eich 
men  kiver  up  their  hearts  with  a  kiverin'  of  gold,  Sir, 
and  then  the  goodness  is  held  back ;  they  looks  about 
to  see  how  the  rich  men  and  women  does,  and  not  up 
to  God  to  see  how  he  would  have  them  do." 

There  was  a  solemnity  and  simplicity,  coupled 
with  rebuke,  in  the  words  of  Bob,  but  we  must  re 
member  that  the  prophet  speaks  in  the  right  of  his 
own  deep  revelations,  and  he  utters  out  of  the  depths 
of  his  own  singleness  of  life,  and  may  rebuke  because 
of  his  own  purity. 

"  God  knows  you  speak  truth,  Bob,"  rejoined  Mr, 
Dinsmoor ;  u  but  stay  with  me,  my  noble  boy,  stay,  and 
let  me  learn  of  you." 

Still  Bob  hesitated,  as  if  other  objections  lay  upon 
his  mind  which  he  was  not  entirely  free  to  confess. 
At  this  moment  Kack-o'-bones,  who  had  nicely  folded 
one  little  dress,  two  blue  aprons,  and  a  pair  of  nearly 


356  THE    NEWSBOY. 

worn-out  shoes  upon  a  chair,  together  with  a  petticoat, 
and  one  small  chemise,  the  entire  wardrobe  of  Dady, 
approached  Bob,  and  said, 

"  I  'm  thinking,  Bob,  you  will  not  want  me  any 
more,  and  in  truth  I  should  have  left  you  before  but 
for  your  sickness." 

"Why  would  you  leave  me,  mother,"  asked  the 
Newsboy,  with  a  look  of  grief  and  disappointment, 
and  a  little  shame  also  upon  his  candid  face. 

Eack-o' -bones  was  too  old,  and  too  sallow,  and  had 
too  little  blood  in  her  withered  veins  to  blush,  but  a 
dark  hue  paled  and  deepened  upon  her  cheek,  and 
then  she  answered, 

"  I  have  my  own  trials,  my  own  sorrowful  mem 
ories,  Bob.  When  I  am  with  you,  they  come  back  to 
me,  and  weigh  me  down ;  but  when  I  am  out  under 
the  sky,  and  see  the  sun  shining  alike  upon  the  good 
and  bad,  and  see  the  great  world  go  by,  I  forget  it  all. 
I  will  go  back,  and  take  my  bit  of  oil-cloth  and  lay  it 
upon  the  sidewalk,  and  let  the  sunshine  warm  my  old 
bones,  Bob,  and  I  shall  be  happier  than  in  any  other 
way." 

"  There  's  reason  in  what  you  say,  mother.  We 
acts  up  to  our  lights,  I  suppose,  always  ;  but  I  'm  bound 
to  say,  beggin'  s  no  better  nor  stealing  so  I  hopes  you 
will  not  do  much  in  that  line.  Mother,  I  '11  keep  a 
place  in  the  car  for  you  o'  nights,  mother,  and  perhaps 


DILEMMAS.  357 

after  awhile  you  '11  stay  all  the  time  in  it.    I  shall  see 
you  every  day  down  town." 

And  so  Rack-o'-bones  went  out  with  a  light,  alert 
step,  much  happier  for  being  relieved  from  the  little 
cares  of  the  Newsboy's  home.  She  was  old,  and 
withered  in  heart,  and  this  tax  upon  the  affections  was 
oppressive  rather  than  refreshing  to  her.  She  had 
lived  solitary  and  uncared  for,  so  many  years,  that 
human  ministry  came  now  too  late,  and  all  she  asked 
was  to  be  folded  once  more  in  the  dear  heart  of  na 
ture  ;  to  have  the  sunshine  upon  her — not  as  it  comes 
with  the  soft  breeze  stirring  the  bird's  heart  to  song, 
but  as  it  comes  to  the  creeping  things  of  earth,  when 
they  creep  out  upon  the  great  warm  stones  by  the 
wayside,  or  upon  the  flat  ledge  dappled  with  moss- 
cups.  Let  her  rest  where  she  will,  dear  Reader,  the 
silver  cord  of  life  is  loosed  to  her,  the  golden  bowl  has 
been  broken  at  the  fountain,  and  the  grasshopper  is  a 
burden.  You  will  see  her  at  her  old  place,  "  doubled 
up,"  as  Bob  said,  near  the  hospital,  or  it  may  be  in 
front  of  Beck's,  or  further  up  town,  for  she  is  creeping 
up,  year  after  year ;  and  sometime  we  shall  miss  her ; 
she  will  be  seen  no  more  a  fixture  by  the  shop-door 
of  Stewart's  or  elsewhere,  and  then  we  shall  know  that 
the  sunshine  is  coming  down,  not  upon  her  old,  bent 
shoulders,  but  over  a  narrow  ridge  of  grass,  hushed 
as  is  the  old  heart  beneath. 


XLVIL 

Ji  Sann  0f  gating, 

AFTER  Kack-o'-bones  went  out,  Bob  mused  awhile 
in  silence ;  at  length  he  said, 

"  It 's  unpossible  to  change  the  nater.  I  never  tries. 
Beatin',  and  scoldin',  and  tryin'  to  make  folks  over  is 
of  no  use.  Eack-o'-bones  might  have  had  an  honest 
livin'  with  me,  and  been  of  use  likewise.  Poor  old 
thing,  she  could  n't  help  herself  though,"  and  he  arose 
with  Dady  in  his  arms. 

"  You  will  not  leave  us,  Bob,"  said  Mr.  Dinsmoor, 
glancing  at  the  troubled  face  of  Fannie. 

"  If  I  can  be  of  use,  in  a  manly  way,"  answered 
Bob,  "  I  will  stay,  in  course.  But,  Sir,  Dady  and  I  is 
both  of  us  sort  of  come-by-chances,  and  mayhap  you 
will  be  ashamed  of  us  ;  and  I  'm  not  one  to  be  in  the 
way  of  people's  feelins',  'cause  why,  Sir  ?  I 's  ready  to 
work,  and  calculate  to  do  somethin7  in  the  world,"  and 
Bob's  face  glowed  with  an  ingenuous  blush. 


A    SENSE    OF    DESTINY.  359 

"  If  you  live,  Bob,  you  mean,"  interposed  Fannie. 

Bob  smiled  softly,  and  reverently  upon  the  speak 
er,  but  he  answered, 

"  I  shall  live,  ma'am,  to  do  it.  I  don't  say  if,  be 
cause  I  know  I  shall.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  I 
feel  it  in  me,  Sir,"  and  now  he  turned  to  Mr.  Dins- 
moor,  as  if  he  could  better  bear  than  Fannie  his  more 
energetic  utterance.  "  I  feel  as  if  called  to  do — called 
to  work — called  to  speak — and  I  must  obey,  Sir.  God 
would  n't  call  me  if  he  did  n't  want  me ;  and  when  I 
hear  him  in  my  heart  say,  do  this  and  do  that,  and  I 
say  I  will  do  it,  I  know  my  life  is  to  be  spared  I  can 
not  die,  Sir;  while  all  this  comes  to  me." 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  certainly  felt  the  force  of  much  that 
Bob  had  said  in  regard  to  remaining  with  them.  He 
was  by  no  means  free  from  conventional  vices,  that  is, 
the  smaller  vices  of  prejudice ;  he  could  n't  well  re 
frain  from  thinking  "  what  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say  ;" 
and  now  that  all  his  plans  for  life  had  been  so  cruelly 
overthrown,  and  public  opinion  might  surmise  the 
worst  fate  for  his  only  and  beautiful  daughter,  he  was 
inclined  to  grasp  still  more  strongly  the  strong  meshes 
of  society,  by  which  the  warp  and  woof  of  common 
place,  vulgar  respectability  is  to  be  upheld.  All  were 
silent  awhile,  and  then  Fannie  raised  herself  suddenly 
and  said, 

"  Say,  Bob,  you  will  not  die  till  you  find  Imogen." 


360  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"I  do  say  it,  ma'am,"  answered  Bob.  " She  is 
alive,  for  I  see  her  at  night  in  my  sleep,  not  like  Min 
nie  looks,  ma'am,  that  is  n't  to  be  expected ;  but  Flashy 
Jack  and  I  will  find  her,  and  bring  her  home  to  you, 
we  will,"  and  Fannie  pressed  his  hand  between  her 
little  waxen  fingers,  in  token  of  her  faith  and  her 
gratitude. 

"  Then  if  you  will  do  this,  Bob,  let  this  be  your 
home,  go  and  come  as  you  will,  and  let  Dady  be  here 
also;"  and  the  merchant  took,  for  the  first  time,  the 
handsome  child  upon  his  knee. 

Bob  was  greatly  pleased  at  this,  for  he  was  proud 
of  Dady,  and  looked  upon  that  little  nice  piece  of 
flesh  and  blood  almost  as  his  own,  since  but  for  him 
its  stay  in  this  world  had  been  a  very  brief  one. 

""  I  thinks,  Sir,  you  don't  quite  bring  home  to  your 
mind  the  onpleasantness  of  having  Dady  and  me  in 
the  house.  We 's  al'ays  been  despised.  Grand  women 
al'ays  looks  down  at  us  with  a  sort  of  snubby  look. 
When  I  gets  into  the  cars  and  stages,  I  sees  people 
kind  o'  look  to  their  pockets.  I  does  n't  mind  it,  I 
knows  what  I  am,  Sir,  and  I  cannot  be  made  to  feel 
mean-like.  But,  Sir,  I  has  friends,  a  good  many 
friends,  Sir.  They  goes  with  bare  feet,  and  has  rags, 
and  no  hats  ;  some  on  'em  aint  good,  but  the  contrary  ; 
they  's  weak,  Sir,  and  poor,  and  cast  out,  and  igno 
rant  ;  drinkin'  some  on  'em,  and  liein'  some  on  'em, 


A    SENSE    OF    DESTINY.  361 

and  some  011  'em  do  worse  tilings ;  but,  Sir,  the  very 
worst  on  'em  has  a  good  spot  in  the  heart,  a  good  spot, 
Sir,  that  might  help  out  the  rest  of  their  hearts,  if  any 
body  would  see  to  'em  a  little.  Now,  Sir,  these  is  my 
friends.  They  comes  to  me  when  they  gets  into  bad 
fixes,  and  I  and  Flashy  Jack  helps  'em  out.  I  could  n't 
give  'em  up,  Sir,  I  couldn't  desert  'em.  They  need 
me,  and  I  need  them,  for  the  good  I  does  'em.  But, 
Sir,  you  'd  be  feelin'  onpleasant  to  have  'em  comin' 
here.  You  'd  think  I  must  gin  'em  all  up,  and  then 
there  'd  be  more  misery  and  more  sin  to  foller,  Sir." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  beckoned  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
out,  and  all  at  once  Bob  heard  the  well-known  voice 
of  poor  Maggie,  so  wo-begone  in  tone,  so  hollow,  and 
yet  so  her  own,  that  he  followed  Mr.  Dinsmoor  into 
the  hall,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Maggie  grasped  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  half 
knelt  at  his  feet. 

"  Come,  Bob,  for  the  love  of  God  come  to  poor 
Jack.  He  is  in  the  Tombs.  Leave  this  great,  proud 
house,  Bob,  and  be  where*  your  friends  can  come  to 
you.  Come  to-night,  this  very  moment,  Bob,  if  you 
ever  loved  poor  Jack,"  she  cried,  the  tears  half  choking 
her  utterance. 

"  What  is  poor  Jack  in  the  Tombs  for?"  asked  the 
Newsboy,  lifting  Maggie  from  the  floor,  and  wiping 
her  face  with  his  own  hands  while  he  spoke. 

16 


862  THE    NEWSBOY. 

u  Oli !  Bob,  he  has  killed  a  man.  But  he  didn't 
mean  it,  you  know  he  would  n't  hurt  a  living  thing. 
Come  to  him,  Bob,  do  come  now,"  and  she  pulled 
him  toward  the  landing. 

The  Newsboy  staggered  to  one  side ;  "  Killed  a 
man !  Poor  Flashy  Jack !"  and  instantly  a  thousand 
recollections,  a  thousand  misgivings  that  had  come  to 
him  for  years  floated  over  his  mind.  He  recalled  the 
time  when  he  had  appeared  at  the  theatre  as  Jack 
Sheppard,  in  that  play  so  fearful  in  its  power,  and  so 
fearful  in  its  tendency. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  friend,  Sir,"  he  at  length  said. 

"  No,  Bob,  do  not  go  to-night,  you  are  too  weak. 
You  can  do  no  good,  the  law  must  take  its  course," 
replied  Mr.  Dinsmoor. 

"  I  can  help  his  feelin's  by  goin',  Sir ;  and  Jack  is 
my  friend,  he  has  stood  by  me  many  's  the  time,  and 
now  I  will  stand  by  him." 

By  this  time  the  Newsboy  had  reached  the  base 
ment  door,  Maggie  still  grasping  him  by  the  hand, 
when  a  new  difficulty  occulted. 

"  You  will  see  to  Dady,  Sir,  I  'm  sure,  but  I  does  n't 
feel  quite  right  abdut  these  clothes — " 

"  Come  back,  Bob,  after  you  have  seen  your  friend, 
and  then  we  will  talk  of  all  these  things." 

And  so  Bob  went  out.  Maggie  was  very  pale,  but 
as  she  talked  with  the  Newsboy,  relating  the  circum- 


A    SENSE    OF    DESTINY.  863 

stances  of  the  preceding  day,  her  native  animation  re 
turned.  She  had  not  been  able  to  gain  admittance  to 
the  cell,  for  there  was  a  general  prejudice  in  the  minds 
of  the  officials  both  against  Jack  and  herself.  It  was 
well  known  that  the  father  of  the  youth  had  perished 
by  the  hands  of  the  executioner  many  years  before, 
and  the  gay,  rollicking  life  of  Flashy  Jack,  while  no 
thing  definite  could  be  brought  to  his  charge,  was  still 
of  a  kind  to  engender  distrust.  Flashy  Jack  never 
spoke  of  his  good  deeds,  never  in  fact  knew  that  he 
did  them — his  instincts  were,  as  we  have  shown,  brave 
and  generous,  and  in  obeying  these  he  was  never  con 
scious  of  meanly  claiming  a  reward,  or  supposing  him 
self  deserving  of  praise. 

"  When  I  do  a  thing  that  goes  against  the  grain, 
boys,"  he  would  say,  "  then  praise  me,  then  cry  out, 
then  say  I  'm  a  devil  of  a  good  fellow  ;  but  when  I  do 
a  thing  to  help  another,  because  I  love  to  do  it,  don't 
make  me  ashamed  by  calling  me  good — and  don't 
make  me  sick  by  thanking  me." 

Flashy  Jack  was  multifarious  in  his  pursuits,  apt 
in  speech,  resolute,  hardy,  full  of  animal  spirits,  and 
full  of  resource.  He  was  "  about  in  spots,"  here  and 
there  ;  camping  down  whenever  convenience  served, — 
now  aboard  a  canal  boat  reeling  off  his  yarns,  now  with 
the  pilots,  now  with  the  actors  and  the  Newsboys. 
Everywhere  he  was  welcome,  and  received  with  shouts 


364  THE    NEWSBOY. 

of  joy.  It  was  always  a  holiday  where  Jack  was. 
He  was  the  beau  of  the  Bowery,  the  admiration  of  the 
g'hals,  the  envy  of  the  b'hoys. 

Of  late  he  had  kept  rooms  in  Franklin  street,  near 
the  head  of  it.  Maggie  took  care  of  these  rooms,  and, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  occupied  them  also.  In 
justice  to  the  girl  I  must  say  she  would  very  willingly 
have  married,  but  for  a  reason  which  shall  subsequent 
ly  appear.  But  then  neither  she  nor  Flashy  Jack  had 
been  educated  in  any  way  by  which  they  could  exactly 
learn  the  utility  of  the  institution.  It  was  their  igno 
rance,  and  the  fact  goes  to  show  our  need  of  city 
missionaries.  They  were  faithful  and  devoted  to  each 
other,  notwithstanding  the  absence  of  all  bonds,  which 
goes  to  show  that  marriage  has  an  original  basis,  es 
tablished  before  the  priest  assumed  his  robes  of  office, 
and  exacted  a  fee  preparatory  to  giving  this  relation 
of  love  between  two  persons  the  sanction  of  the  law 
and  the  church.  It  shows  that  God's  laws  are  very 
ancient  and  very  binding. 

The  handsome  pair,  so  gay,  so  jaunty  fine,  at  the 
theatre,  museum,  in  public  walks,  were  always  to 
gether.  Maggie  was  often  connived  at  in  torch-light 
processions,  and  "running  with  the  machine,"  in  a 
masculine  dress  by  the  side  of  Flashy  Jack.  She  was 
seen  waiting  for  him  in  her  smart  green  boddice  and 
short  skirt,  showing  a  round  tight  ankle  cased  in 


A    SENSE    OF    DESTINY.  365 

crimson  gaiters,  in  the  lobby  of  the  theatre,  or  any  of 
his  many  places  of  resort.  She  was  well  known  as 
the  best  dancer  in  the  Bowery,  and  indeed  it  was  a 
sight  worth  seeing  as  the  two  whirled  in  the  dance,  or 
tired  each  other  out  in  the  polka  or  schottish,  dancing 
with  a  life  and  spirit  unchecked  by  any  rules  of  the 
schools.  In  the  Bowery  there  is  little  exchange  of 
partners,  even  in  the  dance.  "When  two  persons  be 
tray  a  liking  for  each  other,  others  are  expected  to 
keep  at  a  distance  at  the  peril  of  something  not  pleas 
ant  to  talk  about ;  hence  Maggie  and  Flashy  Jack  were 
inseparable  companions. 

It  followed  naturally  that  the  two  were  great 
favorites  in  their  own  circle,  the  admiration  of  the 
Bowery,  but  watched  with  distrust  and  aversion  by 
the  minions  of  the  law,  who  never  forgot  the  parent 
age  of  Jack  and  Maggie ;  the  violent  death  of  the 
father  of  the  former,  and  the  fact  that  Maggie  was  a 
foundling,  or  rather  a  waif,  tossed  here  and  there,  and 
living  as  best  she  might.  To  these  the  free  and  easy 
life  of  the  two  looked  worse  than  suspicious.  Their 
gaiety  was  a  crime.  The  mirth  of  two  who  had  no 
father  nor  mother,  little  learning,  and  less  money, 
had  something  unreal  and  unnatural  about  it,  and  they 
were  consequently  watched,  year  after  year,  as  a  cat 
would  watch  a  mouse,  or  rather  as  people  watch  with 
a  pre-conceived  opinion  of  evil  against  another. 


XLVIII. 


WHEN  Bob  and  Maggie  reached  tlie  Tombs,  there 
was  a  dense  mass  of  Newsboys,  sailors,  actors,  chiffon- 
niers,  beggars,  stall-keepers,  and  small  venders  of  va 
rious  kinds,  to  say  nothing  of  porters,  coachmen,  men, 
women,  and  boys,  crowding  about  the  street  and  lob 
by,  to  learn  something  in  regard  to  Flashy  Jack.  The 
people  were  quietly  disposed,  yet  eager  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  those  who  might  be  supposed  to  know 
something  of  his  condition. 

The  officer  on  duty  at  first  positively  refused  to 
admit  poor  Maggie,  but  Bob  interposed  and  said, 

"  When  a  man  has  a  wound  we  wraps  it  up  before 
we  asks  how  he  got  it  ;  and  to  my  way  of  thinkin' 
when  a  woman  's  distressed  we  ought  to  relieve  her 
without  askin'  whether  she  's  distressed  accordin'  to 
law;"  and  so  Maggie,  who  had  become  at  once  divested 
of  all  her  coquetries,  and  all  her  smart  wardrobe,  was 
allowed  to  enter  the  cell. 

Contrary  to  what  might  be  supposed,  Maggie  did 


THE    GYPSY    GUESE.  367 

not  rush  to  the  arms  of  Flashy  Jack,  but  remained 
timidly  at  the  entrance,  till  the  youth  extended  his 
hand  toward  her,  when  she  grasped  it  in  both  of  hers, 
and  sank  down  at  his  feet. 

"Have  I  done  wrong  to  come,  Jack?  will  it  be 
the  worse  for  you?"  she  asked.  "I  couldn't  stay 
away,  but  now  that  I  have  seen  you  once,  I  will  do 
whatever  you  bid  me." 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Maggie,  a  good  girl,"  re 
peated  Jack,  holding  back  her  head  and  looking  into 
her  eyes.  "  When  Jack 's  gone,  Maggie,  you  '11  miss 
him,  you  will." 

Maggie  answered  only  by  a  passionate  burst  of 
tears,  resting  her  head  upon  his  knee  and  weeping  as 
if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  I  cannot  stand  this,  Bob,"  said  Jack,  for  the  first 
time  speaking  to  his  friend.  "  You  '11  take  care  of 
poor  Maggie  when  I  'm  gone,  wont  you,  Bob?" 

"  Oh  no,  no,  I  will  die  too,  Jack.  I  couldn't  live 
and  you  gone.  I  could  n't,  could  n't,"  and  she  looked 
as  if  she  spoke  truth,  for  she  had  eaten  nothing  all 
day,  nor  had  she  been  able  to  sleep. 

"  Poor  girl,  poor  girl,"  ejaculated  Jack.  "  I  pity 
women,  Bob,  they  love  so  true  if  they  love  at  all." 

Jack's  gaiety  was  all  gone.  He  looked  haggard 
and  dispirited.  Maggie  at  length  roused  herself  to 
produce  a  little  basket  of  eatables  which  she  had 


368  THE   NEWSBOY. 

brought  with  her,  and  which,  she  spread  upon  the  seal 
of  a  chair,  but  neither  could  eat. 

Bob  learned  all  the  particulars  of  the  death  of 
Peter,  and  saw  at  once  that  Jack  was  entirely  inno 
cent  of  all  evil  intention,  but  he  saw,  also,  the  diffi 
culty  of  making  this  to  appear  with  sufficient  force  to 
affect  the  minds  of  others. 

"  I  'm  sorry  Peter  7s  gone,"  at  length  said  Bob. 
"  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  hoped  we  might  get  something 
out  of  him  in  the  matter  of  Silver-tongue.  But  he 
desarved  his  death,  he  did.  Somehow  these  things  all 
come  out  right  at  last,  't  was  n't  in  the  nater  of  things 
that  Peter  should  die  in  a  peaceful-like  way,  he 's  got  his 
desarts,  but  I  'm  sorry,  Jack,  he  got  'em  through  you." 

"  It  can't  be  helped  now,"  returned  the  other. 
"  It 's  all  up  with  Flashy  Jack  this  time,  Bob,  and  now 
all  he 's  got  to  do  is  to  settle  his  accounts,  and  go.  The 
world  is  done  with  him." 

"  I  hope  it  is  n't  so  bad  as  that  comes  to,  Jack,  but 
the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  you  's  innocent,  Jack, 
and  that 's  a  great  comfort.  I  '11  do  all  I  can  for  you." 

Jack  grasped  his  hand  warmly.  "  Bob,  I  have 
felt  as  if  it  would  come  to  this  ever  since  I  played  in 
Jack  Sheppard.  I  never  got  over  it." 

Bob  shuddered,  remembering  his  own  presenti 
ments. 

"  That 's  a  devilish  play,  Jack,  it  makes  rascality 


THE    GYPSY   CUKSE.  369 

takin',  makes  it  seem  easy,  as  if  you  could  n't  help  it. 
But,  Jack,  I  knows  in  my  heart  your  a  good  fellow  ;  a 
great  deal  better  than  the  world  knows  of,  and  I  love 
you,  Jack,  and  will  stand  by  you,  and  help  you,  and 
and  so  now  tell  me  what  I  shall  do  first." 

"  Help  him  out,  Bob,  help  him  out,  is  there  no 
way  of  doing  so  ?"  and  Maggie  grasped  from  side  to 
side  the  heavy  stone  walls  and  iron  gratings. 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  Maggie,  and  give  that  up.  There 
is  no  way  of  doing  it ;  besides,  as  it  was  an  accident, 
I  think  I  shall  be  cleared,  and  then  we  will  go  away 
somewhere  into  the  other  part  of  the  world,  Maggie." 

"  Don't  come  to  trial,  Jack,"  interposed  the  girl, 
eagerly.  "  There  never  was  such  a  thing  as  a  poor 
man  or  woman  being  cleared  by  the  law.  They'll 
make  a  great  parade  of  justice,  but  they  '11  condemn 
you,  Jack.  Try  to  escape,  help  him  to  escape,  dear 
Bob ;"  and  then  she  went  on  to  propose  a  change 
of  garments,  to  procure  files,  aquafortis,  and  other 
means  of  escape  ;  for  in  the  region  of  the  Five  Points 
these  topics  are  often  under  discussion,  as  means  hav 
ing  been  put  in  practice  by  its  inmates  at  some  time, 
or  as  likely  to  be  contingently  useful. 

Flashy  Jack  would  not  listen  to  her  plans.  "It's 
of  no  use,  Maggie.  It  runs  in  the  blood  of  our  family. 
My  father  told  me  so.  There  was  an  old  gypsy 

woman  who  fell  in  love  with  my  grandfather,  and 
16* 


370  THE   NEWSBOY. 

when  lie  would  n't  leave  his  country  and  follow  after 
her,  for  the  reason  that  he  was  mate  of  a  ship,  and 
had  a  wife  and  children  at  home,  she  followed  him 
down  to  the  sea,  outside  of  the  walls  of  Cadiz,  and 
cursed  him.  My  grandfather  hadn't  wit  enough  to 
say,  'curses,  like  chickens,  come  home  to  roost,'  for 
the  reason  he  pitied  her.  She  stood  down  by  the  sea 
as  he  went  out  of  the  harbor,  and  she  tied  three  knots 
around  the  neck  of  a  toad,  and  hung  it  on  a  cross-bar 
upon  the  quay,  all  the  time  saying  over  at  one  breath, 

'  Three  firm  knots  around  I  tie, 
Black  toad  hung  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
Blood  of  his  I  doom  to  die ; 
One,  two,  three,  are  swinging  high, 
Mark  the  gypsy  prophecy.' " 

It  was  evident  this  singular  story  had  laid  for 
years  in  the  mind  of  Jack,  impressing  him  more 
deeply  than  he  was  conscious  of  at  the  time. 

"  I  always  felt  I  was  born  to  complete  the  curse  of 
the  old  woman,"  continued  Jack,  "  and  so  I've  lived 
about  in  spots,  and  haven't  cared  to  do  much  in  the 
world  for  the  reason  it  did  n't  much  matter." 

Bob  had  a  deep  vein  of  superstition,  and  this  re 
cital,  and  the  state  of  mind  which  it  indicated,  affected 
him  greatly. 

"  What  became  of  your  grandfather?"  asked  the 
Newsboy. 

"  On  his  voyage  home  he  was  attacked  by  pirates, 


THE   GYPSY    CURSE.  371 

who  killed  all  of  the  crew,  but  kept  him  because  they 
wanted  a  sailing-master.  He  couldn't  make  his 
escape  from  them,  and  saw  them  murder  and  rob  upon 
the  high  seas  for  more  than  a  year.  At  length  they 
were  becalmed  off  New  Orleans,  and  the  pirates  after 
fighting  like  devils  were  all  taken  and  hung.  My 
grandfather  had  never  injured  any  man,  but  he 
couldn't  make  it  appear  so,  and  he  went  with  the 
rest.  My  father  was  a  young  man  then,  and  down  he 
went  to  Orleans  to  be  with  him  to  the  last,  and  then 
he  got  the  story  of  the  gypsy  queen.  After  this  -he 
would  never  marry.  He  was  the  only  son,  and  he 
went  off  and  gave  out  that  he  was  dead,  so  that  if  any 
thing  had  ever  come  to  him  his  mother  shouldn't 
know  it. 

"Well,  in  course,  my  father  having  nobody  to 
look  to,  nobody  to  care  for  him,  tossed  about  without 
money  nor  friends,  just  as  you,  and  I,  and  Maggie 's 
been  all  our  lives,  fell  into  bad  courses." 

"  I  wonders  we  aint  worse  nor  we  is,"  interrupted 
Bob,  musingly ;  "  we 's  got  so  little  light ;  and  when 
rich  rascals  wants  a  tool,  they  comes  to  us  poor  bodies, 
and  offers  to  buy  us  up  to  do  their  deviltry.  Now, 
Jack,"  continued  Bob,  rising  and  spitting  to  show  his 
disgust,  "  I 's  had  'em  come  to  me  and  mouse,  and 
talk,  but  I  gin  'em  to  know  that  I  was  n't  o'  their 
kidney.  Let  every  man  do  his  own  dirty  work,  I  '11 
do  it  for  nobodv." 


372  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Bob  evidently  had  some  disagreeable  experience 
upon  his  mind,  but  he  did  n't  explain ;  and  after  a 
pause,  Jack  went  on  with  his  recital. 

"  For  some  years  my  father  told  me  he  went  and 
came  much  as  I  have  done,  helping  out  those  that  got 
into  difficulty,  helping  the  good  and  the  bad,  which 
ever  needed  him — when — well  I  don't  know  about  the 
rest  of  the  story — " 

"  Maybe  you  wouldn't  care  to  tell  it,  Jack,  and  ac- 
cordin'  to  my  way  of  thinkin',  when  we  feels  a  check 
inside,  it  means  stop,  and  I  always  stops  till  I  gets 
further  light." 

Jack  seemed  to  appreciate  the  delicacy  of  his 
friend,  and  did  not  at  once  renew  the  recital.  The 
turnkey  by  this  time  made  his  appearance,  and  Maggie 
would  have  again  yielded  to  her  passionate  grief  had 
not  Flashy  Jack,  in  a  few  firm  words,  enjoined  silence. 

"  You  know,  Maggie,  these  people  think  we  are 

only  brutes  and  d Is,  and  where 's  the  use  of  crying 

and  making  trouble  ?  They  don't  pity  us,  they  don't 
care  whether  we  walk  or  swing.  We  must  hold  up, 
and  then  they  '11  not  have  a  chance  to  abuse  us." 

Thus  incited,  4he  girl  passed  through  the  corridor 
with  some  little  degree  of  composure ;  but  as  she 
turned  towards  her  deserted  rooms,  she  became  more 
and  more  distressed,  and  she  held  her  green  veil  down 
close  to  her  face,  that  her  tears  might  not  be  visible. 


XLIX. 


ON  the  return  of  Bob,  Mr.  Dinsmoor  listened  to  his 
recital  of  events  with  great  interest.  Here  was  a  class 
of  persons  living  in  the  heart  of  a  great  Christian  city, 
whose  lives  were  like  a  new  revelation  to  the  rich  and 
aristocratic  merchant.  He  had  heretofore  regarded 
them  as  all  bad  without  redemption.  A  horde  of 
miserable  evil-doers,  hunted  down  by  the  law,  and  en 
tirely  without  the  pale  of  human  sympathies.  One 
and  another  had  been  brought  to  his  observation,  and 
he  was  astonished  to  find  that  some  of  the  hardier 
virtues,  such  as  answer  to  corn,  oak  trees,  and  the  metal 
of  iron  to  the  material  world,  —  bread,  and  power,  and 
strength  —  the  moral  vitalism  of  the  soul,  reigned  there 
in  a  sort  of  savage  grandeur. 

He  was  compelled  to  think  better  of  man,  even 
while  he  was  brought  into  contact  with  him  in  his 
worst  aspect.  If  his  constitutional  exclusiveness  re- 


374  THE    NEWSBOY. 

coiled  at  first  from  the  contact,  a  braver  spirit  grew 
upon  him  as  one  trait  after  another  in  the  Newsboy's 
character  revealed  to  him  the  sumptuous  furnishing  of 
his  moral  nature, — 

"  Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom" 

of  that  fathomless  heart  of  his,  unknown  in  part  even 
by  himself,  disregarded  by  the  world  about  him,  but 
known  and  cared  for  by  the  Father  of  Spirits. 

Like  others  in  his  position,  Mr.  Dinsmoor  had 
washed  his  hands  of  all  contact  with  what  he  considered 
as  the  refuse  and  off-scouring  of  the  world.  He  did  n't 
know,  and  you,  dear  Eeader,  do  not  know,  how  at 
times  some  great,  pure  human  emotion,  such  as  Jesus, 
were  he  here,  would  turn  aside  to  say,  "  well  done," 
starts  forth  to  the  light,  even  amid  the  darkness  and 
misery  of  these  wretched  precincts,  and  looks  there 
and  then  like  a  dear  white  angel  calling  upon  us  to 
help  brighten,  and  purify,  and  regenerate  the  place. 

Once  in  the  country  a  beautiful  pearl  was  lost,  and  we 
all  helped  to  search'far  and  near  to  recover  it ;  but  weeks 
and  months  elapsed,  and  the  pearl  was  not  found.  One 
morning  I  observed  in  my  walks  our  great,  strutting, 
noisy  chanticleer,  scratching  and  making  a  great  ado 
over  a  dunghill — calling  his  family  about  him,  crow- 


*    THE    IVORY    CRUCIFIX.  875 

ing  and  calling,  as  if  he  had  great  pickings.  I  listened 
to  the  pleasant  country  noise,  and  watched  the  chanti 
cleer  with  great  interest — when  lo  !  he  gave  a  scratch 
that  sent  the  black  heap  far  and  wider  and  almost  un 
settled  him  in  the  vigorous  outlay  of  his  legs,  and 
there,  gleaming  fair,  and  white,  and  beautiful,  notwith 
standing  all  the  filth  amid  which  it  had  lodged,  ap 
peared  the  lost  pearl.  There  are  many  pearls,  and 
pearls  of  price,  amid  the  moral  filth  of  the  Five  Points 
and  other  sinks  of  wickedness  in  the  great  city  of 
New  York.  Will  none  search  to  find  them  ?  That 
old  black,  undrained  marsh  of  the  Collet,  about  which 
squalid  poverty,  and  slinking  vice,  and  hunted  crime, 
congregated  itself  in  the  early  times,  because  there  was 
refuge  and  security  in  its  malaria,  was  but  a  prophecy 
of  its  future  debasement,  and  a  prophesying  of  the 
great,  gloomy,  pestilential  prison,  which  has  in  our 
days  usurped  the  site. 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  made  interest  at  once  in  behalf  of 
Flashy  Jack,  so  that  his  imprisonment  was  less  severe 
than  it  might  otherwise  have  been.  He  even  obtained 
a  periodical  pass  for  poor  Maggie,  and  went  so  far  as 
to  propose  that  the  marriage  bond  should  be  estab 
lished  between  them,  a  proposal  which  poor  Maggie 
heard  with  a  sense  of  new  and  unexpected  shame,  and 
which  she  refused  at  once.  The  girl  seemed  so  em 
barrassed  and  troubled  at  the  mention,  that  Mr.  Dins- 


376  THE    NEWSBOY. 

moor  urged  an  explanation,  which  Maggie  gave  in  a 
few  words : 

"  If  Jack  gets  his  liberty,  Sir,  it  will  be  time  to 
talk  about  it.  If  he  should  n't" — •  and  she  paused  for 
breath,  "  it  will  be  all  the  same  to  me,  Sir,  I  should  n't 
live  long  at  the  best.  Besides,  I  would  n't  have  him 
marry  me  in  the  Tombs  when  he  might  n't  want  to  do 
so  if  he  was  out."  The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a 
low,  timid  voice,  accompanied  with  a  blush. 

This  was  a  species  of  loyalty  and  delicacy  for  which 
the  merchant  was  unprepared  ;  but  a  further  conversa 
tion  with  Maggie  convinced  him  that  she  was  utterly 
unable  to  analyze  her  state  of  feeling,  or  to  refer  it  to 
any  educational  source,  and  he  was  obliged  to  confess 
that  there  was  a  sort  of  innate  goodness  about  the 
girl,  which  needed  but  a  fostering  hand  to  develop 
into  something  morally  beautiful. 

Through  the  intervention  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor  and  the 
efforts  of  Bob,  the  Newsboys  were  permitted  to  talk 
often  with  their  old  and  favorite  companion  through 
the  grate ;  and  many  were  the  cheering  things  said 
to  him,  and  many  the  papers  and  periodicals  thrust 
through  the  iron  bars  for  him  to  read.  The  officials 
scolded  and  grumbled  at  the  extra  care  all  these  atten 
tions  caused  them,  but  the  hearty  good  will  of  the  News 
boys  was  infectious,  and  even  these  jackals  and  badg 
ers,  and  wolves  and  foxes  of  the  law  incarnated  in 


THE    IVORY    CRUCIFIX.  377 

the  shape  of  men,  were  appeased,  and  acquired  some 
thing  bordering  upon  human  insight,  but  in  a  dim  way 
of  course. 

There  were  circumstances  in  the  history  of  Flashy 
Jack  which  he  had  concealed  even  from  his  favorite, 
Bob,  and  which  must  be  detailed  in  our  subsequent 
pages,  Jack  was  human  all  over  down  to  the  heels 
of  his  boots.  He  was  n't  an  angel  nor  a  saint,  nothing 
but  a  man  doing  the  best  he  could  in  the  condition 
he  found  himself  in  the  world.  When  I  write  the 
record  of  a  saint,  or  the  volantes  of  an  angel,  I  shall 
deal  in  quite  another  system  of  morals  and  events 
from  those  that  figure  in  this  book,  which  claims  to  be 
no  more  nor  less  than  a  true  history  of  what  trans 
pired  in  the  experience  of  mortals. 

One  morning  Bob  had  passed  some  two  or  three 
|  hours  in  the  cell  of  his  friend,  who  was  more  than 
usually  thoughtful ;  and  accordingly  the  Newsboy  en 
tered  into  some  details  in  regard  to  Dady,  and  spoke 
of  the  state  of  Mrs.  Dinsmoor,  (whose  life  waned  day 
by  day,)  more  fully  than  he  had  ever  before  done. 

"  She 's  like  one  of  them  lilies,  Jack,  you  and  I 
!  and  Sam  used  to  go  over  to  Brooklyn,  out  in  Dick 
I  Berry's  pond,  to  get.  Don't  you  remember,  Jack,  how 
!  poor  old  crazy  Berry  used  to  run  after  us  and  fire 
i  stones,  and  we  would  dash  into  the  water,  grab  a  hand 
ful  and  then  run — " 


378  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"Like  the  d — 1,"  interposed  Jack  with  animation. 
"  Those  were  happy  days,  Bob — but  they  're  all  over, 
all  over." 

"  To-morrow,  according  to  my  way  of  thinkin',  is 
always  better  nor  to-day,  Jack.  'Cause  why  ?  we 's  a 
day  older  and  wiser,  and  nearer  to  the  lights  we  wants. 
But  as  I  was  sayin',  them  lilies  always  opened  as  if 
they  thought  it  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  hide  so  much 
sweetness,  as  if  they  loved  to  show  how  handsome 
God  had  made  'em,  as  if  it  did  n't  cost  nothin'  to  be 
beautiful,  as  if  it  pleased  'em  to  please.  "Well,  so  it  is 
with  Mrs.  Dinsmoor  ;  she 's  easy-like  in  her  beauty, 
easy-like  in  her  goodness,  as  if  it  come  natural.  She 's 
taken  a  great  likin'  to  Dady,  and  seein'  it  will  be  better 
for  her,  I  says  nothin'." 

"  Do  you  love  that  child,  Bob,"  asked  Flashy  Jack 
in  a  careless  voice,  but  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
Newsboy  as  he  spoke. 

"  In  course  I  do,  Jack.  We  always  love  what 
looks  to  us  for  love.  I  'm  thinkin'  God  loves  us  in 
the  same  way.  We  needs  him,  and  looks  to  him,  and 
he  won't  disappoint  us.  But,  Jack,  supposin'  you  tell 
me  the  rest  of  that  story  of  yourn." 

Jack  was  about  to  begin,  when  the  keeper  opened 
the  door  and  Sister  Agnace  entered  the  cell. 

"  Benedicite,  meus  filius"  she  whispered,  glancing 
around  and  crossing  herself.  "Did  you  send  this, 


THE    IVORY    CRUCIFIX.  379 

my  son,"  she  said,  showing  a  small  ivory  crucifix  of 
delicate  workmanship,  although  stained  and  discol 
ored  by  time. 

"  I  did, "  said  Flashy  Jack.  ' l  My  father  directed  me 
if  trouble  come  upon  me  to  send  it  to  the  convent, 
and  I  should  learn  further." 

"  You  have  done  well,  my  son."  She  then  listened 
in  silence  while  the  youth  recited  the  particulars  of  the 
unfortunate  affray  and  the  death  of  Peter. 

"  The  son  of  the  blessed  Mary  perished  between 
two  thieves  upon  a  false  charge.  Bear  the  cross  pa 
tiently,  my  son,  it  will  usher  you  to  eternal  glories." 

"Is~there~n6"  escape,  think  you,  good  Mother?" 

"  The  law  is  uncertain  ;  a  charge  is  condemnation 
to  the  poor  and  uncared  for.  I  would  have  you,  my 
son,  ready  for  the  worst,  and  then  should  you  be 
liberated  your  joy  will  be  the  greater.  Should  you 
die,  your  preparation  will  be  more  perfect." 

Sister  Agnace  had  grown  more  pale  and  spiritual 
in  her  looks  since  we  saw  her  ten  years  ago ;  but  her 
voice  had  the  same  heavenly  fall,  the  cadence  of  di 
vine  peace,  and  pure  ineffable  love.  She  had  not  for 
gotten  Sam  and  the  sweet  Mary,  notwithstanding  so 
many  had  since  come  under  her  ministry.  She  asked 
Bob  of  his  present  plans,  and  life.  She  listened  to  his 
recital  of  the  abduction  of  Imogen,  with  her  clear  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face. 


380  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Go,  my  son,"  she  said  warmly  as  lie  closed,  "  go, 
and  God  and  his  blessed  angels  help  you.  The  voice 
has  spoken  to  you — obey."  Her  cheek  glowed  with 
animation  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  will  be  with  you  on  the  morrow,"  she  said,  and 
kneeling  down,  she  repeated  the  prayers  for  "  those 
that  are  in  bonds,"  sprinkled  holy  water  upon  the  cell, 
and  went  out. 

"  She  thinks  as  we  do,"  rejoined  Flashy  Jack,  when 
she  had  left.  "  She  believes  Cosmello  guilty." 

The  turnkey  now  signified  that  Bob  must  leave, 
and  he  did  so  with  a  promise  to  return  and  hear  the 
relation  of  Jack  in  the  morning. 


L. 


EARLY  in  the  morning  Bob  was  by  the  side  of  his 
old  friend.  But  early  as  it  was,  Maggie  was  before 
him  with  her  little  basket  of  linen  and  provisions,  and 
the  Newsboys  had  left  each  a  paper.  Maggie  was  more 
cheerful  than  her  wont,  and  brought  many  little  items 
of  news  to  wile  away  the  dull  thoughts  of  Flashy 
Jack.  The  lovers  talked  awhile  in  a  low  voice. 

u  You  will  be  wanting  money,  Maggie,"  said  Jack. 

"  No,  no,  I  have  enough,"  returned  the  girl. 

Flashy  Jack  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  cold,  pene 
trating  look,  but  Maggie  did  not  shrink  ;  she  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  whispered, 

"  You  know  Maggie  is  true,  Jack,  till  death." 

"  My  good  girl.  Sell  all  my  clothes,  Maggie,  and 
my  watch.  I  'm  glad  little  Yic  's  dead.  Go  to  Sister 
Agnace  when  you  have  nothing  to  live  upon.  We 
are  both  of  us  done  with  the  world,  are  we  not,  Mag- 


382  THE    NEWSBOY. 

gie  ?  When  Jack  goes  he  will  die  the  easier  to  know 
that  there  is  one  true  in  her  love  for  him." 

"  Don't,  don't,  Jack,"  cried  Maggie,  sobbing  bitter 
ly.  "  "When  you  die  I  shall  die.  There  is  nothing 
but  death  for  poor  Maggie  when  you  are  gone.  I've 
thought  it  all  over,  Jack,  and  I  see  that  death  is  better 
than  the  shame  and  the  falsehood." 

Shortly  after  she  went  out  upon  some  commission 
for  Jack,  and  Bob  and  his  friend  being  alone,  the  for 
mer  proposed  a  continuance  of  the  story  which  had 
been  interrupted,  as  we  have  before  seen. 

"  My  father  never  forgot  the  gypsy's  curse,  and 
for  that  reason  he  never  'd  marry.  But  it  fell  out  after 
awhile  that  he  met  an  Italian  girl,  coming  over  to  this 
country.  He  was  mate  of  a  ship  at  that  time,  and  as 
handsome  a  man  as  need  to  be.  They  had  bad 
weather  coming  on  the  coast,  and  were  blown  off  two 
or  three  times.  Some  of  the  men  died,  the  captain 
was  very  sick  in  his  berth,  and  the  crew  were  put 
upon  short  allowance.  The  father  of  the  girl  died, 
and  my  father  being  young,  and  naturally  fair-spoken, 
and  respectful  to  women,  treated  her  as  if  she  had  been 
a  queen.  The  consequence  was  they  both  got  into  love, 
and  then  my  father  cared  very  little  whether  they  ever 
got  into  port.  They  were  spoken  by  other  ships,  and 
supplied  with  provisions ;  but  as  the  bottom  of  the 
ship  had  become  foul  with  barnacles  and  sea-drift,  and 
Bailed  slow,  this  voyage  was  a  long  one. 


THE    ITALIAN.  383 

"After  awhile  they  reached  New  York.  Before 
their  arrival  my  father  told  Juliet  the  story  of  the 
gypsy's  curse ;  he  told  her  he  could  n't  marry  because 
of  it,  for  he  was  persuaded  some  day  he  should  come 
to  some  dreadful  end,  and  he  was  not  willing  to  in 
volve  her  in  his  ruin.  But  Juliet  did  n't  heed  this  ; 
she  declared  she  would  leave  the  whole  world  for  him ; 
and  indeed,  Bob,  my  father  had  the  soul  of  as  true  a 
man  as  ever  breathed,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  love 
of  the  girl. 

"When  the  voyage  was  over,  they  could  meet 
only  by  stealth,  for  Juliet  was  a  great  singer,  and 
made  her  appearance  soon  after  in  public,  and  my 
father  was  too  much  of  a  man  to  be  in  her  way,  much 
as  he  loved  her.  He  would  go  to  the  places  where 
she  sang,  and  take  some  poor  place  in  the  house,  that 
he  might  see  and  hear  her.  Juliet  seemed  to  always 
know  where  to  look  for  him,  and  all  the  love  parts 
she  sang  to  him.  The  tears  poured  from  her  eyes,  and 
she  wept  and  sang  in  such  earnest-wise,  that  after 
awhile  the  gallants  learned  to  follow  her  eyes,  and 
then  they  saw  my  father  with  his  whole  soul  upon 
her. 

"She  went  to  Boston,  to  Eichmond,  Charleston, 
all  the  great  cities  north  and  south,  and  my  father 
went  also,  but  no  one  knew  it.  He  never  in  any  way 
made  it  appear  that  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  beiug 


381  THE    NEWSBOY. 

with  Juliet,  who  was  everywhere  honored  and  be 
loved  for  her  beauty  and  her  goodness. 

"In  Richmond  I  was  brought  to  him,  according  to 
a  promise  she  had  made.  At  first  my  father  designed 
to  put  me  to  death,  but  he  could  n't  do  it.  Many 's 
the  time  he  planned  to  take  my  life,  but  he  saw  some 
thing  in  my  looks,  Bob,  that  made  him  weak  as 
death." 

"  It  is  n't  the  nater  of  a  man  to  take  the  blood  of  a 
human  creeter,  Jack,"  responded  the  Newsboy.  "  We 
feels  a  nat'ral  drawin'  one  to  another.  But  tell  me 
what  became  of  your  mother." 

"She  pined  for  me  more  than  she  thought  she 
would  have  done ;  for  loving  the  father,  it  was  natural 
she  should  love  his  child.  But  she  never  saw  me 
afterwards.  My  father  put  me  to  board  with  an  old 
woman,  and  I  believe  he  hoped  I  should  die  a  natural 
death,  for  he  feared  I  might  be  the  third  one  included 
in  the  gypsy's  curse.  I  was  sent  out  to  school  some 
times,  to  work,  sell  papers,  and  indeed  I  had  a 
rough  time  of  it.  The  yellow  fever  and  the  cholera 
both  carried  off  the  people  about  me,  and  yet  I  escaped 
even  sickness.  At  this  time  I  did  not  know  that  I 
had  any  parents.  I  never  saw  my  mother  to  know 
her,  for  my  father,  even  when  he  at  last  revealed  him 
self  to  me,  gave  me  no  clue  by  which  I  could  distin 
guish  her. 


THE   ITALIAN.  385 

"  When  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  an  officer  came 
to  me  one  day,  and  brought  me  to  the  old  prison.  I 
found  a  man  who  took  me  upon  his  knee,  and  wept 
over  me,  Bob,  as  much  as  Maggie  weeps.  He  held  me 
in  his  arms,  and  sobbed  aloud.  He  looked  into  my 
face,  and  saw  that  I  was  man  enough  to  hold  a  secret." 

"That's  it,  Jack,"  interposed  the  Newsboy.  "It 
takes  a  man  to  hold  a  secret,  a  man  as  is  a  man. 
Some  is  like  leaky  vessels,  nothin'  goes  in  that  does  n't 
run  out  again.  And  the  fools  will  tell  women's  secrets 
as  quick  as  their  own — and  quicker  too,  as  to  that, 
because  of  the  vanity  ;  but  go  on." 

"  He  saw  that  I  could  be  trusted,  and  then  he  told 
me  all  I  have  been  telling  you,  Bob.  He  called  me 
child,  Bob,  child,  and  it 's  a  pleasant  sound." 

The  tears  choked  Jack's  utterance  as  he  said  this, 
and  Bob  arose  and  walked  across  the  cell.  Both  of 
them  had  felt  the  need  of  human  ministry. 

"  It  is  n't  to  be  supposed  that  a  beautiful  woman 
like  my  mother  would  Bfe  without  her  admirers,  but 
Juliet  loved  my  father  too  well  to  flirt  with  anybody 
else.  It  chanced,  however,  that  a  young  man  from 
South  Carolina  became  so  deeply  in  love  with  her, 
that  he  offered  marriage,  and  was  greatly  enraged  at 
the  rejection  of  my  mother.  He  watched  all  her 
movements,  and  at  length  became  assured  that  my" 

father  was  the  one  in  whom  her  affections  were  con- 

17 


386  THE    NEWSBOY. 

centred.  One  night  he  stationed  himself  in  the  recess 
of  the  door  of  Juliet's  house,  and  when  my  father 
made  his  appearance  a  violent  contest  took  place,  in 
which  the  young  Southerner  lost  his  life.  He  assured 
me  solemnly,  that  he  fought  only  in  self-defence.  But 
circumstances  were  against  him.  He  was  unwilling  to 
challenge  a  thorough  investigation,  because  of  my 
mother.  I  don't  understand  this  part  of  the  story," 
continued  Jack,  musingly ;  but  it  must  be  remembered 
that  Jack  and  Bob  had  no  opportunity  to  learn  con 
ventional  virtue,  and  polite  respectability. 

"  My  father  enjoined  it  upon  her  never  to  come  to 
him.  He  told  her  she  could  n't  help  him — she  had  a 
work  to  do  in  the  world,  and  she  must  do  it,  and  not 
lose  her  good  name  through  him." 

"  Did  she  never  visit  him  ?"  asked  Bob. 

"  Never ;"  and  both  of  the  boys  looked  at  each 
other,  trying  each  to  reconcile  her  conduct  to  his  own 
system. 

"  I  think  she  grew  ambitious,"  continued  Jack,  "and 
the  money  she  made,  and  the  applause  she  received 
made  her  hard-hearted.  But  my  father  died  believing 
she  acted  only  in  obedience  to  his  wishes.  He  died 
loving  and  trusting  her  to  the  last. 

"  He  never  gave  me  his  real  name.  He  said  it 
was  better  that  I  should  be  ignorant.  As  to  my  mother, 
he  gave  me  nothing  by  which  I  could  identify  her. 


THE   ITALIAN.  387 

This  ivory  crucifix  lie  bade  me  send  to  the  convent  in 
case  of  any  trouble,  and  the  Sisters  would  see  that  I 
had  Christian  offices  done  me.  He  was  very  gentle  to 
me,  and  wept  and  deplored  that  he  had  n't  taken  better 
care  of  me.  He  said  he  had  thrown  away  his  whole 
life — he  had  lost  it  because  of  that  gypsy's  curse." 

"  And  you  've  had  all  this  on  your  mind,  Jack, 
and  never  told  of  it.  "Well,  I  'm  bound  to  think  there 's 
something  above-board  and  handsome  in  you,  Jack," 
said  Bob  ;  "I  should  a  done  jest  so,  but  I  should  n't 
a  thought  of  your  doing  it,  Jack  ;  'cause  why  ?  you  *s 
not  nat'rally  sober  and  work-lovin'  as  I  am." 

"  I  Ve  enjoyed  myself,  Bob,  I  've  enjoyed  myself 
some,  in  the  world.  When  I  saw  how  the  case  stood 
with  me,  I  saw  how  't  would  come  out,  and  so  I  kind 
of  gave  way.  I  sailed,  and  rode,  and  walked,  and 
treated  myself  one  way  and  another.  I  was  n't  brought 
up  under  rules,  but  come  up  in  spots,  here  and  there, 
and  so  I  went  on  without  learning  them.  Maggie  took 
to  me,  and  I  must  own  I'm  sorry  for  it." 

"  "We 's  ignorant,  Jack, "  returned  Bob.  "  Maggie  '11 
act  up  to  her  lights,  and  it 's  better  she  should  die  out 
of  love  to  you,  than  lead  the  life  she  'd  a  lead  without 
you." 

The  officer  on  duty  now  opened  the  door  of  the 
cell,  and  another  visitor  was  admitted. 


LI. 


UPON  tlie  entrance  of  the  stranger  Bob  took  leave 
of  his  friend,  believing  their  communications  would 
be  more  unembarrassed  if  alone,  than  in  the  presence 
of  a  third  party,  The  visitor  was  a  woman  taller  than 
Sister  Agnace,  but  being  dressed  in  the  usual  costume 
of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  this  fact  was  not  immediately 
obvious.  She  seated  herself  at  the  farthest  distance 
possible  from  the  prisoner,  and  looked  upon  him  in 
silence. 

"You  sent  the  crucifix  —  what  is  your  wish,  my 
son,"  at  length  the  Sister  said  in  a  low,  trembling  voice. 

"  I  hardly  know,  Mother,  what  I  wish  ;  but  I  am 
the  same  as  a  dying  man  ;  I  wish  to  be  in  somebody's 
heart  and  prayers." 

The  woman  wept  in  silence  for  awhile,  and  then 
said,  "How  has  the  world  gone  with  thee,  my  son? 
Have  you  suffered  or  been  happy  in  it?" 


THE    NUN.  389 

"Both,  Mother,  both.  But  always  I  have  felt  as 
if  I  belonged  where  I  could  not  be ;  always  I  have 
longed  for  something  better  than  I  found." 

"  And  then  you  have  plunged  into  sin,  been  the 
companion  of  harlots — the  friend  and  abettor  of  thieves, 
the  consort  of  profligates,  heretics,  and  evil-doers." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  Mother.  As  Bob  would  say, 
and  Bob  is  my  only  friend,  I  have  lived  up  to  my 
lights.  What  I  knew  to  be  wrong  I  never  did ;  but, 
Mother,  sometimes  I  learned  too  late,"  and  the  tears 
gushed  to  his  eyes. 

The  woman  groaned  aloud.  "  Did  you  commit 
any  great  sin,  my  son  ?  are  you  guilty  of  the  crime 
now  laid  to  your  charge  ?" 

'  "  No,  so  help  me  God,"  answered  the  youth.  "  But, 
Mother,  I  care  not  now.  I  feel  as  if  a  curse  had  been 
upon  me  always ;  what  I  most  desired  I  could  not 
have,  and  now  I  will  die.  Flashy  Jack  has  led  a  wild 
life,  but  he  had  a  black  grief  always  at  his  heart,  and 
now  that  death  is  near,  it  seems  a  pleasant  let  up.  I  'm 
tired  of  the  struggle." 

"  And  yet  I  hear  of  thee,  even  here  in  this  prison, 
holding  communion  with  one  who  is  of  the  frail  sister 
hood." 

"  Ah  !  Mother,  how  should  I  learn  what  the  wise, 
and  the  rich,  and  the  honored  know  ?  How  should  I, 
living  as  I  have,  without  a  home  ;  loved  only  by  crea- 


390  THE   NEWSBOY. 

tures  as  poor  and  more  ignorant  than  myself, — how 
should  I  know  of  the  regulations  of  people  who  never 
look  upon  our  poverty,  and  houselessness,  and  misery, 
with  anything  but  scorn  ?" 

"  But  this  Maggie,  why  should  she  blazon  her  evil 
preference  in  the  way  she  does  ?" 

Jack  was  silent.  "  Speak,  my  son,  I  would  know 
thy  secret  thoughts." 

"  Maggie  grew  up  as  I  did,  unloved,  uncared  for. 
We  both  had  beauty.  We  have  both  had  our  tempt 
ers.  Maggie  is  more  ignorant  than  I  am ;  but  years 
ago  when  we  have  both  sat  and  gnawed  a  dry  crust 
upon  the  curb-stone,  we  clung  together  in  our  wretch 
edness  :  we  have  laid  our  heads  upon  the  ground  and 
slept^  because  something  in  us  revolted  at  the  horrid 
revelry  within  doors.  When  the  weather  was  cold  poor 
Maggie  would  fear  to  enter  the  house,  and  she  learned 
to  look  to  me  for  help.  I  've  saved  her,  many  's  the 
time.  And  she  loves  me." 

"  And  what  should  be  the  love  of  a  creature  like 
that  ?"  asked  the  nun  in  an  angry  tone. 

"  Mother,  when  Maggie  has  been  hungry  I  gave 
her  bread.  When  we  sat  two  shivering  orphans  upon 
the  side- walk,  too  young  to  interpret  the  life  about  us, 
Maggie  has  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder  and  slept. 
When  she  would  awake,  I  laid  my  head  in  her  lap  and 
slept  in  turn.  Why  should  I  not  ?  The  whole  world 


THE   NUN.  391 

scorned  and  abused  me,  and  here  was  a  creature  as 
helpless  as  myself  who  loved  me.  Why  should  I  not 
love  her  in  return  ?  Our  parents  had  cast  us  off,  who 
should  enlighten  us  ?" 

"  Silence,  my  son,  silence,"  returned  the  other. 
"  You  do  not  know  the  motives  of  another.  The 
scorn  of  the  world  is  not  to  be  lightly  hazarded." 

"  I  think  of  that,  Mother ;  but  where  love  is  in 
the  heart  it  will  speak,  though  the  tongue  be  dumb. 
The  love  in  the  heart  will  make  us  despise  the  world. 
It  seems  but  a  little  thing  to  die,  in  order  to  save  one's 
child." 

"  You  do  not  know,  my  son,  you  do  not  know  how 
fearful  the  scorn  and  jeers  of  the  world  become  to  the 
proud  heart." 

"  The  heart  that  is  proud  to  that  degree  should  be 
too  proud'  to  love,"  answered  the  youth.  "  Such  a 
heart  despises  its  object." 

"It  may  be,  and  unjustly  so,"  mused  the  woman. 
"  And  you  despise  Maggie  1" 

"  No,  never.  She  had  a  gay,  loving  heart,  till  she 
loved  me ;  and  now  she  will  starve,  die,  but  Maggie 
will  be  true  to  the  last.  How  many  of  your  rich,  fair 
reputed  ladies  would  live  a  chaste  life  as  Maggie  will, 
in  spite  of  hunger,  and  rags,  and  cold,  and  misery  ? 
I  love  her,  Mother,  for  she  is  braver  than  was  she  who 
gave  me  birth,  and  left  me  to  ignorance  and  death." 


392  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  My  child,  my  child  !"  gasped  the  woman,  cling 
ing  to  his  knees.  "  Do  not  curse  me,  oh  1  my  child, 
your  words  are  daggers.  I  caused  all  your  misery." 

Poor  Jack  recoiled  from  her  touch.  She  saw  it, 
and  clasped  her  hands  imploringly.  "  Life  of  my  life," 
she  cried,  "  do  not  spurn  me,  forgive  me,  forgive  me, 
I  am  more  wretched  than  you." 

Still  Jack  turned  away.  "  Oh,  my  child,  my  peni 
tence  came  too  late.  A  fatal  spell  has  been  upon  us 
all.  I  alone  hoped  to  serve  God  and  the  world.  I 
was  not  great  enough  for  the  heart-freightage  entrusted 
to  me.  Can  you  not  pardon  your  mother,  Jack  ?" 

"  I  'm  thinking,"  returned  the  youth,  "  of  the  times 
I  slept  on  the  ground,  instead  of  a  mother's  bosom. 
Ah  !  I  might  have  been  very  happy  !"  and  he  sobbed, 
and  grasped  the  bars  of  the  prison  for  support. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  poor  child." 

"  I  'm  thinking  of  the  times  when  I  was  kicked 
from  place  to  place,  bruised  and  aching,  and  no  mother's 
hand  interposed." 

"  Poor,  neglected  child,  and  my  child." 

"  I  'm  thinking  how  I  have  strove  to  learn,  longed 
for  the  knowledge  of  the  right,  and  no  mother  opened 
the  book  of  life  to  my  young  heart." 

"  No  more,  oh  no  more !" 

Jack,  still  grasping  the  irons,  looking  off  into  the 
distance. 


THE    NUN.  393 

"  Oh !  I  'm  thinking  how  suffering,  and  remorse, 
and  agony  have  gnawed  at  my  heart,  and  a  dim  voice 
urged  me  to  pray,  to  seek  unto  the  Unseen,  and  no 
mother  had  taught  me  prayer.  Oh,  mother,  mother, 
God  judge  between  us,"  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
two  hands. 

The  woman  sank  down,  overcome  with  her  emo 
tions. 

"  Mother,"  continued  the  youth,  "  had  you  loved 
with  a  mother's  heart,  you  would  have  screened  the 
creature  that  owed  its  life  to  you.  Oh,  mother,"  and 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  floor  beside  her,  "  the  love 
of  your  poor  boy  would  have  been  better  than  that  of 
the  whole  world  beside.  He  would  have  learned  at 
your  knee,  so  loved  and  honored  you,  that  you  would 
have  forgotten  it  in  your  child.  Then  that  awful 
curse  might  have  been  defeated,  and  I  have  been  what 
I  was  born  to  be,  not  a  miserable  outcast  as  I  am." 

"Can  you  not  forgive  me,  child?  Our  passions 
blind  us.  They  make  us  deaf  and  dumb,  and  when  the 
calm  day  of  thought  comes,  they  scourge  us  to  mad 
ness.  I  have  sinned — forgive  me.  I  have  sorrowed — 
pity  me.  I  loved  you  always,  even  when  I  believed, 
as  I  did  for  years,  that  your  little  ashes  had  been  scat 
tered  to  the  elements.  Then  I  mourned  you  in 
silence,  and  the  Church  put  up  prayers  for  you,  for 

you  were  a  baptized  infant." 

17* 


394:  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"I  a  baptized  infant  ?  Oh,  mother,  has  there  been 
even  so  much  care  for  poor  Jack  ?" 

The  women  kissed  his  hands  in  assent. 

"  And  you  prayed  for  me,  mother,  when  I  sat  and 
wondered  at  the  stars  at  midnight,  and  wondered  why 
such  a  poor  little  outcast  was  put  into  this  world — did 
you,  mother,  in  your  secret  heart  pray  for  me  ?" 

"  God  is  my  witness,  I  prayed  day  and  night  for 

you." 

"Bless  you,  bless  you,"  cried  the  youth,  sinking 
at  her  feet.  "And  you  called  me  child,  your  child. 
Say  it  again,  I  Ve  tried  so  often  to  think  how  it  would 
seem  to  be  treated  tenderly." 

The  ISTun  clung  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  held 
the  cross  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  in  return,  and  they 
both  wept  in  concert. 

"  Do  you  remember  once,"  she  continued,  "  seeing 
a  singer  faint  at  the  Opera  ?  I  had  borne  up  after  the 
terrible  death  of  your  father  as  best  I  could.  I  had 
supposed  you  dead  up  to  the  time  the  crucifix  of  ivory 
was  brought  me.  That  little  image  had  been  blessed 
by  the  Pope.  The  material  had  been  brought  from 
Africa  by  Ignatius  himself,  and  been  preserved  for 
ages  by  the  monks.  My  mother  was  almost  a  saint, 
and  she  obtained  the  gift  because  of  her  birth,  and  her 
sanctity  of  life.  I  gave  it  to  your  father  as  the  most 
sacred  pledge  that  could  pass  between  us.  I  knew  he 


THE    NUN.  395 

was  not  a  Catholic,  but  I  knew  it  would  be  buried  with 
him  unless  reserved  for  another  purpose ;  therefore, 
when  it  was  sent  to  the  convent,  my  first  object  was 
to  find  out  into  whose  hands  it  had  fallen,  and  I  sur 
mised  the  truth  before  I  saw  your  father's  looks  in  you. 

"But  I  spake  of  the  night  in  which  I  fainted.  I 
sang  the  part  of  Norma.  The  agonizing  grief  of  the 
mother  was  re-echoed  in  my  own  heart.  I  wept  as  I 
sang,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon  your  young  face,  so  like 
that  of  your  father's  and  my  own,  as  my  glass  gave  it 
back  to  me  in  younger  days.  I  knew  it  was  my  child 
whose  eyes  were  riveted  upon  me  with  that  intense 
interest.  I  struggled  to  crowd  down  my  heart  as  I 
had  done  a  thousand  times  before.  I  tried  to  imper 
sonate  as  I  had  so  often  done,  while  at  the  moment 
my  own  poor  heart  was  wrung  with  agony.  I  had 
sat  for  hours  alone  at  midnight,  with  the  dead  face  of 
my  beautiful — my  beloved,  lying  before  me.  Hour 
after  hour  the  great  city  rolled  on,  and  slept,  and  yet 
I  gazed.  Oh,  my  God,  I  did  not  go  mad,  for  it  seemed 
all  the  time  as  though  something  whispered,  'Be 
calm,  silence,  this  is  not  the  last.'  " 

The  Nun  had  laid  her  head  upon  the  shoulder  of 
her  child,  and  they  wept  together. 

"  When  my  father  was  buried,"  said  the  youth,  "  I 
was  told  he  would  have  decent  burial,  but  I  could  not 
learn  what  that  was." 


39f>  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  My  gold  procured  the  body,  and  silence  also ; 
and  at  night  when  all  others  slept,  solemn  masses  were 
chanted  for  the  dead,  and  a  sepulchre,  sanctified  by 
holy  Christain  offices,  was  obtained." 

"Thank  God,"  cried  the  youth.  "  Tell  me  all, 
that  I  may  know,"  he  continued. 

"  When  all  was  over,  and  I  alone  in  the  world,  I 
went  on  in  my  career  ;  but  my  energies  flagged — the 
applause  of  the  world  palled  upon  my  ear.  My  heart 
lacked  impulse,  and  yet  even  my  art  was  a  relief,  for 
through  that  I  yielded  to  a  grief  so  wild  and  passion 
ate,  that  other  hearts  thrilled  in  return,  and  called  it 
the  triumph  of  art,  when  it  was  only  the  outspeaking 
of  nature.  Then  I  saw  you.  I  knew  you  were  my 
child.  I  tried  to  go  on.  I  calculated  upon  that  power 
of  endurance  which  had  sustained  me  through  a  thou 
sand  trials.  It  would  not  be.  I  had  reached  the 
acme  of  fortitude,  and  the  reaction  was  terrific.  I  was 
borne  fainting  from  the  stage,  never  to  return." 

"  Did  you  care  to  see  me  again?  did  you  try  to 
find  me  ?"  asked  the  youth. 

"I  offered  large  sums  of  money — I  searched  in  all 
directions,  but  without  avail.  I  have  gone  forth  at 
midnight,  disguised  in  poor  garments,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  you.  And  now  I  find  you  here — here  in  this 
cell,  with  the  mark  of  Cain  upon  your  brow — your 
brow  so  like  his"  and  she  kissed  it  with  tears  falling 
from  her  eves. 


THE    NUN.  897 

"  Oh,  mother,  think  of  us  all — think  what  might 
have  been,  and  has  not  been.  Think  of  our  misery — 
think  of  the  cruel  death  we  all  die,  yet  all  innocent 
of  murder  in  our  hearts.  Can  it  be  that  God  is 
good  ?" 

"  Doubt  it  not,  my  child.  "Without  faith  in  God 
we  should  go  mad  under  our  miseries.  The  warp  and 
woof  of  life  are  fearfully  interwoven  with  good  and 
ill.  Late  as  it  is,  let  me  teach  you  submission  to  God's 
will.  I  have  learned  it.  I  look  back  and  see  how 
much  might  have  been  escaped — I  see  that  the  deep 
regard  which  hallowed  the  lives  of  your  father  and  of 
me,  might  have  been  cast  to  the  winds,  and  then  we 
might  have  escaped.  But  it  could  not  be  at  the 
time." 

"  But  your  child — to  leave  that  to  perish  I" 

"Ah!  that  was  our  crime.  That  fearful  predic 
tion,  so  frightfully  verified  once,  haunted  us  in  every 
aspect  of 'life.  In  our  blindness  and  weakness,  we 
thought  death  would  be  better  than  the  contingency. 
Your  father,  peaceful,  devoted,  studious,  ran  little  risk 
of  such  an  issue,  but  a  child  of  ours  might  at  some 
time  pierce  us  as  with  a  sword,  and  therefore  it  should 
die,  or  be  left  to  some  obscure  fate.  He  never  told 
me  the  result,  nor  dared  I  ask  him.  I  could  only 
hold  you  once  to  my  heart,  behold  the  holy  water  of 
baptism  sprinkled  upon  your  brow,  and  then  lose  you 


398  THE    NEWSBOY. 

forever.  But  that  one  moment  in  which  I  pressed 
you  to  my  bosom,  was  a  moment  of  ecstasy  never  for 
gotten.  It  haunted  me  for  years,  and  then  I  would 
rush  to  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  implore  pardon  for 
ourselves,  and  blessings  upon  you." 

Jack  sank  down  at  her  feet. 

"  My  mother  I"  was  all  he  could  ejaculate. 

The  Nun  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  "  My  child,  my 
child,  say  that  you  love  me,  say  that  you  forgive  me, 
say  that  your  blood  is  not  upon  me." 

"  Now,  mother,  I  could  wish  to  live.  Oh,  death  is 
dreadful  now,  when  I  have  found  you.  Save  me, 
mother,"  and  his  voice  was  lost  in  sobs.  The  weak 
ness,  and  longing  for  life,  which  once  made  the  Shakes- 
pear  Claudio  sublimely  eloquent  in  his  cowardice,  had 
overcome  the  Newsboy. 

At  this  moment  the  official,  faithful  to  times  and 
seasons,  and  all  the  routine  of  office,  appeared,  to  sig 
nify  to  the  pair  that  the  conference  must  be  at  an  end. 
He  looked  surprised  at  the  agitation  of  the  parties,  but 
the  Nun  arose  to  her  feet,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
upon  his  brow,  and  promising  him  soon  to  return,  took 
her  leave. 


LII. 


IN  tlie  meanwhile  the  family  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor  had 
undergone  some  little  change.  For  awhile  the  presence 
of  the  child  Dady  had  served  to  arouse  Fannie  to  some 
little  consciousness  of  life,  but  gradually  the  sense  of  be 
reavement  returned  with  its  deadening  spell,  and  her 
health  seemed  fatally  broken. 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  summoned  to  the  care  of  his 
household  a  maiden  aunt  of  the  family,  who,  after 
many  conditions,  and  stipulations,  and  feeling,  as  she 
said,  "  that  it  was  a  tempting  of  Providence  to  visit 
such  a  sink  of  iniquity  and  Sodom  of  corruption  as 
New  York,  yet  out  of  respect  to  a  member  of  the 
family,  upon  whom  God's  judgments  had  undoubtedly 
fallen  for  his  pride  and  extravagance,  and  taking  her 
life  in  her  hand,  as  it  were,  she  went  forth  to  meet  the 
worst" 

Accordingly,  Aunt  Beckey  went  round  amongst  all 


400  THE    NEWSBOY. 

her  friends  and  neighbors,  and  detailed  the  circum 
stances  of  her  painful  Exodus.  "With  each  one  she 
sat  a  long  afternoon,  and  not  till  her  knitting  sheath 
was  duly  pinned  to  her  side,  and  the  needle  inserted 
therein,  and  her  gossip  seated  with  work  in  hand, 
would  she  open  her  mouth  to  explain  what  was  before 
her.  And  thus  she  went  from  house  to  house,  and 
many  were  the  terrible  surmises  there  and  then  started 
in  regard  to  the  fate  of  Imogen.  Some  believed  she 
had  been  Burked  and  sold  to  the  doctors,  others  even 
surmised  that  the  child  might  have  got  an  unsteady 
fit  into  her  head  and  run  off.  But  other  and  more 
dreadful  suggestions  arose,  which  were  discussed  in 
low  whispers,  and  amid  the  recounting  of  other  tra 
ditions  of  a  like  import. 

Aunt  Beckey  at  length  completed  her  round  of 
visits,  and  several  pairs  of  good  yarn-stockings  in  the 
process.  Prayers  were  duly  put  up  in  the  church  for 
"  a  sister  bound  on  a  long  and  perilous  journey — that 
she  might  be  preserved  in  every  trial,  and  be  made 
strong  to  fight  a  good  fight  in  every  temptation  of  the 
adversary." 

The  time  of  departure  came,  and  then  a  drive  of 
several  miles  brought  Aunt  Beckey  down  to  the  rail 
road  station.  Many  of  the  neighbors  accompanied  her, 
taking  charge  of  sundry  articles  of  necessity  ajEjid  com 
fort  which  go  to  make  up  the  essentials  of  a  spinster's 


AUNT   BECKEY,  401 

travelling  gear ;  and,  truth  to  say,  nothing  could  be 
more  respectable  than  the  appearance  of  Aunt  Beckey 
as  she  presented  herself,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
at  the  door  of  the  car. 

Her  tall,  straight  figure,  was  clad  in  a  spotted 
mouseline  de  laine  dress,  cut  decently  high  in  the 
neck,  where  a  white  linen  collar  carefully  concealed 
every  inch  of  skin  and  bones,  that  might  be  supposed 
to  exist  in  that  vicinity.  An  oblong  black  pin,  hold 
ing  a  fold  of  white  interlocked  with  a  fold  of  black 
hair,  guaranteed  the  allegiance  of  the  linen  collar.  A 
large  cottage  bonnet,  modestly  trimmed  with  green 
ribbon,  and  a  rather  broad  green  silk  cape  to  still 
farther  shade  the  person  in  travelling,  surmounted  her 
head ;  and  thus,  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  her  maiden 
charms  were  still  further  screened  by  a  large  green 
barege  veil,  carefully  tied  with  a  green  string,  which 
passed  under  the  folds  of  the  green  ribbon  aforesaid. 

Aunt  Beckey's  dress  was  by  no  means  of  the 
Broadway  length ;  on  the  contrary,  it  came  some 
inches  above  her  ankle,  thereby  effectually  preserv 
ing  it  from  all  contact  with  dust  in  the  course  of 
her  wayfaring.  A  pair  of  black  morocco  shoes  tied 
with  black  ribbon,  the  bows  picked  out  to  the  full 
width,  black  worsted  hose  of  her  own  knitting,  fur 
nished  ^the  draping  of  her  lower  extremities.  Her 
wrists  were  covered  by  the  sleeves  of  the  dress  closely 


402  THE    NEWSBOY. 

buttoned — white  linen  wristbands,  folding  neatly 
back. 

Aunt  Beckey  had  seen  to  the  stowing  away  of  her 
several  trunks,  but  the  bandbox  she  insisted  upon  tak 
ing  under  her  own  especial  charge,  together  with  an 
umbrella,  a  large  carpet-bag,  an  extra  shawl,  and 
"  Baxter's  Saints'  Best,"  which  was  to  beguile  her  soli 
tary  hours  on  the  way,  the  latter  carefully  folded  in  a 
large  white  handkerchief,  from  the  ends  of  which  pro 
truded  the  leaves  of  the  book  and  the  sticks  of  a  small 
black  fan. 

Many  were  the  affecting  leaves  to  be  taken,  the 
last  words  and  counsels  given  and  received.  Many 
the  kisses  left  upon  the  lips  of  the  good  spinster,  who, 
after  each  infliction,  carefully  wiped  her  mouth  with 
the  pocket  handkerchief;  folded  as  it  was  over  the  book 
and  fan. 

Just  as  the  train  gave  signs  of  starting,  good 
Mrs.  Donder,  a  small  woman,  whose  thoughts  were  apt 
to  come  a  little  late  in  the  day,  produced  quite  unex 
pectedly  a  large  linen  sack,  which  was  to  shield  Aunt 
Beckey's  person  from  the  dust  and  cinders  of  the  road. 
Here  was  a  surprise — here  was  a  forecast  quite  over 
looked  by  everybody  else,  and  great  was  the  triumph 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Donder ;  who,  not  content  with 
presenting  the  garment,  entered  the  car  at  the  risk  of 
being  carried  off  in  the  start,  that  she  might  button 


AUNT   BECKEY.  403 

the  sack  snug  about  the  neck  and  wrists  of  Aunt 
Beckey. 

The  little  woman  hardly  had  time  to  finish  her 
task,  and  take  a  last  kiss,  when  the  train  was  in  mo 
tion,  and  she  gave  a  great  plunge  into  the  arms  of  her 
friends  upon  the  platform.  Then  there  was  waving 
of  handkerchiefs,  and  last  words  and  shouts,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Aunt  Beckey,  standing  her  full  height, 
enveloped  as  we  have  seen,  appeared  to  great  advan 
tage.  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest  had  tumbled  unnoted 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  fan  rested  beside  it,  while  the 
large  handkerchief  shook  from  its  folds  to  its  fullest 
size,  waved  like  a  banner  for  many  miles  from  the 
window  of  the  car. 

Aunt  Beckey  encountered  some  perils  on  her  way, 
but  nothing  absolutely  serious  transpired.  The 
whistle  blew  several  times  with  such  force  and  vio 
lence  as  nothing  but  the  most  imminent  danger  could 
justify.  On  these  occasions  Aunt  Beckey  closed  her 
eyes,  and  betook  herself  to  her  prayers.  As  the  dis 
tance  from  home  increased,  and  she  still  found  herself 
sound  in  life  and  limb,  notwithstanding  that  "thousands 
of  poor,  less  guilty  creatures  than  herself,  had  been 
hurried  without  a  moment's  warning  into  eternity," 
her  confidence  increased. 

I  quote  Aunt  Beckey's  own  words  above,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  phrase  "  less  guilty  than  herself" 


404  THE    NEWSBOY. 

is  a  sort  of  orthodox  figment,  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  not 
designed  to  convey  any  very  definite  idea  to  the 
mind ;  for  so  far  as  Aunt  Beckey  was  concerned,  never 
was  "infant  in  its  nurse's  arms  "  more  guileless,  more 
free  from  all  evil  than  she.  If  you  marked  Aunt 
Beckey,  with  her  large  open  eyes  rounded  into  wonder 
as  she  looked  about  her,  her  cheek  smooth  and  hard 
as  a  child's,  and  her  hair,  with  now  and  then  a  white 
thread,  so  smoothly  combed  upon  each  side  of  her 
head,  and  tied  in  a  strong  string  behind,  where  it  was 
knotted  into  the  hardest  possible  knot  or  club,  you 
would  say  at  once  that  no  lamb  was  more  innocent 
than  Aunt  Beckey. 

Between  Boston  and  Providence  Aunt  Beckey  en 
countered  a  pale,  intellectual-looking  man,  who,  in  a 
modest,  humble  tone  of  voice,  asked  if  he  should  take 
a  seat  beside  her.  She  was  rather  pleased  than  other 
wise  at  this,  and  when  he  toot  up  Baxter's  Saints' 
Eest,  and  turning  the  leaves  awhile,  said  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  A  godly  book,  ma'am,  and  I  doubt  not  many 
are  now  singing  the  songs  of  the  Lamb  who,  but  for 
this  book,  would  be  consigned  to  utter  darkness,"  the 
whole  of  Aunt  Beckey's  heart  went  out  towards  him. 
She  turned  her  round  eyes  full  upon  him  with  such 
an  expression  of  pious  admiration  as  could  only  come 
from  the  virgin,  heart  of  forty*five. 

Then  the  man  discussed  the  "  state  of  religion  "  in 


AUNT   BECKET.  405 

divers  parts,  spoke  of  the  "benighted  heathen,"  and 
"the  thousands  of  the  isles  lying  in  wickedness,"  till 
Aunt  Beckey  became  convinced  he  was  some  great 
missionary.  He  went  out  and  bought  a  piece  of 
sponge  cake,  and  a  couple  of  russet  apples ;  one  of  the 
latter  he  peeled,  holding  the  fruit  by  the  stem  lest  it 
should  come  in  contact  with  his  fingers,  and  all  in  a 
sort  of  pious  and  resigned  way,  and  then  offered  it  to 
Aunt  Beckey,  who  took  it  with  a  pleasure  quite  new 
and  unexpected,  and  a  blush  altogether  girlish. 

After  awhile  the  excellent  young  man  asked  her  in 
a  kind,  brotherly  way,  whither  her  journey  tended, 
and  expressed  a  hope  that  the  Lord  would  be  her 
guide,  and  ever-present  helper.  Aunt  Beckey  closed 
her  eyes,  and  prayed  in  her  heart  for  the  good  young 
man,  and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  the  story  of  "  Cousin 
George,  who  had  met  with  a  terrible  blow,"  &c.,  and 
then  she  branched  off  into  indefinite  space  in  the 
matter  of  "dispensations  and  providences,"  in  quite  an 
edifying  manner. 

The  man  bent  his  head  to  one  side,  and  listened  as 
a  man  who  has  the  good  of  souls  at  heart  is  expected 
to  listen ;  but  when,  warming  in  her  subject,  she  went 
on  to  cite  one  authority  after  another,  the  discrepan 
cies  in  the  character  of  David,  who,  notwithstanding, 
was  declared  to  be  a  "  man  after  God's  own  heart ;" 
the  case  of  Job,  who  still  adhered  to  his  integrity ;  the 


406  THE    NEWSBOY. 

/ 

flight  of  Jonah,  that  he  might  escape  the  utterance  of 

the  truth ;  the  false  prophets  slain  by  the  way  ;  the 
fate  of  Nathan  and  Abiram,  &c.,  all  brought  into  juxta 
position  to  sustain  some  theory  not  very  clear  to  the 
mind  of  the  hearer,  the  good,  innocent  creature  be 
trayed  a  familiarity  with  the  possible  workings  of  the 
moral  code  quite  surprising ;  a  familiarity  also  with 
imaginary,  book-recorded  evil  doings,  that  might  have 
argued  an  imagination  directed  to  a  channel  somewhat 
unexpected  in  a  spinster  of  her  years.  But  if  any 
such  thought  crossed  the  mind  of  her  auditor,  he  did 
her  great  injustice,  for  Aunt  Beckey  had  no  clear  idea 
in  her  mind  of  the  nature  of  any  one  positive  sin. 
She  had  a  soul  as  white  as  a  vestal's,  indeed  whiter,  for 
Aunt  Beckey  had  only  a  sort  of  dictionary  knowledge 
of  evil,  and  all  the  pulpit  denunciations  upon  wicked 
ness,  passed  over  her  "  like  the  sweet  south  over  a 
bed  of  violets,"  a  healthful  stirring  up,  by  which  the 
"  pure  mind  was  kept  in  remembrance." 

At  length  Aunt  Beckey  landed  safely  upon  our 
mundane  sphere  after  her  long  exploring  amid  ab 
stractions,  and  then  she  left  the  possible  cause  of  the 
misfortune  of  her  cousin  to  be  disposed  of  by  other 
powers  while  she  detailed  the  story  itself. 

The  man  listened  with  great  apparent  interest, 
while  she  told  of  little  Imogen,  who  was,  to  say  the 
least,  the  best  and  beautifulest  child  that  ever  lived. 


AUNT   BECKEY.  407 

Her  mother,  Fannie,  was  a  harmless  little  thing,  and 
she  rather  wondered  that  Cousin  George  should  fall  in 
love  with  her ;  but  everybody  to  his  taste,  and  Cousin 
George  always  had  his  own  way.  But  when  in  the 
course  of  her  story  she  spoke  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  and 
described  the  location  of  his  house,  the  interest  of  the 
stranger  became  intense. 

"  I  have  heard  of  the  strange  abduction  of  a  child 
answering  to  your  description,"  he  replied,  "  but  little 
thought  it  would  ever  be  my  happiness  to  encounter 
one  so  nearly  related  to  the  dear  angel.  Pray  tell  me 
how  the  poor  parents  bore  up  under  this  terrible  be 
reavement,  more  terrible  than  death  to  the  sensitive 
mind." 

Aunt  Beckey  responded  admiringly  to  the  senti 
ment,  and  then  went  on  to  depict  the  grief  of  the  no 
ble  father,  and  the  prostration,  mental  and  bodily,  of 
the  poor  mother,  in  a  way  at  once  simple  and  touch 
ing.  She  even  held  the  little  black  fan  in  front  of  her 
maiden  bosom,  while  she  fumbled  amid  its  mysteries, 
and  at  length  produced  the  identical  letter  of  Mr. 
Dinsmoor  in  which  he  had  urged  her  to  come  to  them, 
not  even  suppressing  a  postscript  in  which  he  stated, 
"  I  enclose  you  a  hundred  dollars  for  the  expenses  of 
your  journey,  all  in  small  bills,  that  you  may  have  no 
trouble  in  changing  them." 

"  Cousin  George  will  be  surprised,"  added  Aunt 


408  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Beckej,  "to  receive  his  hundred  dollars  untouched. 
I  had  some  things  which  I  turned  into  money ;  they 
would  n't  a  bin  of  the  smallest  arthly  use  in  York,  but 
up  in  Bluehill  was  of  considerable  vally..  So  I  sold 
'em  and  took  the  proceeds  to  pay  my  way,  keeping 
Cousin  George's  money  safe  in  my  pocket.  I  always 
wear  two  pockets  when  I  go  away  from  home,  one  tied 
underneath,  and  hanging  down  low,  for  fear  of  pick 
pockets,  and  one  in  the  skirt  of  my  gown.  I  'm  told 
there  are  pick-pockets  all  along  the  road,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  and  their  wickedness  and  audacity  are  sur 
prising." 

"Most  true,"  ejaculated  her  companion,  "most 
true,  as  is  the  long-suffering  of  the  Lord  surprising," 
at  the  same  time  he  turned  over  the  seat  in  part,  and 
took  Aunt  Beckey's  carpet-bag  from  under  her  feet 
and  placed  it  before  her,  and  helped  her  to  adjust  her 
self  with  a  better  eye  to  comfort.  He  appeared  to 
have  travelled  much,  was  solemn,  and  low-spoken — 
sighed  frequently.  Eead  an  account  of  a  robbery  and 
murder  from  one  of  the  newspapers  which  he  bought 
of  a  country  Newsboy,  who  jerked  out  his  papers,  and 
flirted  out  his  brief  words  in  a  manner  directly  the 
opposite  of  the  rich  rythmetic  flow  of  the  New  York 
Newsboy,  who  prolongs  the  sound  of  his  own  clear 
voice  as  if  he  loved  to  hear  it. 

When  the  stranger  finished  his  perusal,  he  leaned 


AUNT   BECKEY.  409 

his  elbow  upon  the  arm  of  the  seat,  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  and  sighed  frequently,  like  a  man  completely 
overcome  at  contemplating  the  wickedness  of  the 
world.  Aunt  Beckey  fell  into  a  similar  reverie,  which 
gradually  deepened  into  a  sound  sleep,  from  which  she 
did  not  awake  till  the  cars  were  safely  landed  at  Ston- 
ington,  at  which  place  she  was  to  take  the  steamboat 
Massachusetts  and  cross  the  Sound  to  New  York. 

The  night  had  become  dark,  and  a  slow  rain  had 
set  in  while  the  good  spinster  slept ;  and  now  all  was 
noise  and  bustle,  people  were  hurrying  out  of  the  cars 
to  the  boat.  Half-awakened  children  were  screaming 
and  fretting,  the  employes  of  the  road  were  hurrying 
about  with  lanterns  in  hand,  one  of  them  came  along 
and  turned  all  the  backs  of  the  seats  the  other  way, 
and  here  he  found  Aunt  Beckey  in  great  perplexity. 
She  found  her  bandbox,  her  shawl,  her  umbrella,  but 
the  carpet-bag  had  disappeared  altogether. 

"You'll  find  it  on  board  of  the  boat,"  answered 
the  official,  "  somebody 's  took  it  by  mistake — hurry, 
ma'am,  or  you'll  be  left,"  and  he  did  urge  her,  most 
unwillingly,  over  the  plank,  which  was  hurriedly 
taken  in,  and  the  burst  of  steam,  the  bustle  of  men, 
the  revolving  of  the  wheels,  and  one  last  expiring  puff 
of  the  valve,  answered  by  a  sharp  cry  of  the  locomo 
tive,  all  conspired  to  drown  the  shrill  cries  of  Aunt 
Beckey,  but  they  came  one  after  another,  till  people 

were  obliged  to  hear. 

18 


•ilO  THE   NEWSBOY. 

There  stood  the  innocent  creature  amid  the  crowd ; 
she  had  torn  her  bonnet  from  her  head,  she  had  di 
vested  her  shoulders  of  the  linen  sack,  and  stranger 
still,  had  raised  the  decorous  spotted  mouseline  dress 
in  a  way  to  show  the  nicely- quilted  bombazine  petti 
coat  beneath,  adown  one  side  of  which  streamed  a 
huge  calico  pocket,  which  had  been  slit  its  whole 
length  and  the  contents  gone. 

Search  was  instantly  made,  but  nothing  transpired 
to  implicate  any  one.  But  a  gentleman  present  ex 
pressed  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  pious,  ministerial 
young  man,  who  had  beguiled  the  lonesomeness  of 
her  journey  by  the  unction  of  his  discourse,  was  the 
aggressor  ;  an  opinion  which  shocked  Aunt  Beckey 
quite  as  much  as  the  loss  of  her  money,  and  going,  as 
she  said,  "  to  prove  the  wickedness  of  the  world." 

Aunt  Beckey  was  too  much  distracted  to  sleep 
through  the  night.  She  counted  the  shawl  and  the 
band-box,  and  umbrella  and  fan,  and  Baxter's  Saints' 
Kest,  over  and  over,  as  if  in  this  way  the  carpet-bag 
by  some  sudden  interposition,  would  range  itself  be 
side  them.  But  the  passengers  at  length  subsided  into 
their  berths,  the  splash  of  the  rain  and  the  working  of 
the  machinery  became  more  and  more  monotonous, 
interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  ringing  of  the  fog 
bell,  and  yet  there,  all  night,  under  the  dim  lamp,  sat 
Aunt  Beckey,  like  Marius  amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage. 


LIII. 


AUNT  BECKEY  was,  at  length,  without  much  fur 
ther  discomfort,  landed  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor, 
who  had  met  her  at  the  boat,  according  to  arrange 
ment.  He  listened  with  a  smile  to  her  tale  of  griev 
ances,  and  even  heard  an  inventory  of  the  contents  of 
the  carpet-bag,  by  which  he  was  convinced,  as  Aunt 
Beckey  avowed,  that  the  articles  would  be  of  no  arth- 
ly  use  to  any  man  alive,  though  in  the  highest  de 
gree  comfortable  and  appropriate  for  a  woman.  The 
reader  may  then  judge  of  her  surprise  when  the  first 
object  which  presented  itself  in  the  hall  of  Mr.  Dins- 
moor  was  the  identical  carpet-bag,  which  had  been 
opened  and  the  contents  evidently  examined.  But 
nothing  was  missing. 

No  explanation  could  well  be  made  ;  but  Aunt 
Beckey  became  convinced  that  the  pious  young  man 
had  taken  it  by  mistake  ;  while  Mr.  Dinsmoor  inclined 
to  the  same  faith,  except  in  regard  to  the  mistake  ;  the 


412  THE   NEWSBOY, 

good  spinster  never  quite  recovered  the  loss  of  the  hun 
dred  dollars,  and  her  little  plan  to  surprise  her  cousin. 
Other  and  more  abundant  funds  were  at  her  disposal, 
but  every  addition  to  her  purse  only  served  to  remind 
her  of  her  previous  misfortune.  She  was  not  ava 
ricious,  u  but  such  a  dead  loss  was  enough  to  distract 
anybody,"  she  would  say. 

The  presence  of  Dady  and  her  foster  father  was  a 
great  matter  of  wonderment  to  Aunt  Beckey,  and  she 
did  not  at  first  reconcile  them  to  her  system  of  pro 
prieties.  With  regard  to  poor  Fannie  she  was  even 
more  at  a  loss,  since  her  state  did  not  harmonize  with 
any  preconceived  experience. 

"How  do  you  find  yourself  in  your  mind,  Cousin 
Fannie,"  she  asked,  plying  the  little  black  fan  with 
great  energy.  "  I  hope  the  Lord  is  with  you  in  this 
trying  event." 

Now  this  was  n't  Aunt  Beckey  in  the  least,  but  a 
mode  of  speech  which  she  had  learned  and  fallen  into 
in  her  simplicity,  supposing  it  pious  and  orthodox,  and 
appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

Fannie  made  no  reply,  but  Mr.  Dinsmoor  said, 
"Aunt  Beckey  will  take,  care  of  you,  dear  Fannie, 
and  love  you ;  and  she  will  keep  Imogen's  room  all 
ready  till  she  comes." 

Fannie's  face  brightened.  "  Oh  that  will  be  a  great 
comfort — go  now  then,  and  see  if  her  little  slippers 


AUNT    BECKEY'S    HOUSEKEEPING.     413 

are  just  in  front  of  the  easy  chair,  and  see  that  her 
books  are  just  as  she  left  them.  I  would  not  have 
the  dear  child  think  we  have  forgotten  her.  Do  you 
think  she  will  soon  be  here  ?" 

Aunt  Beckey  arose  from  her* chair,  and  laid  the 
fan  down  upon  the  seat  of  it,  while  she  looked  down 
into  Fannie's  face  with  such  a  look  of  heartfelt  kind 
ness,  that  you  wouldn't  think  whether  she  was  an 
orthodox  Christian  or  not,  for  her  whole  face  expressed 
the  simple  goodness  of  her  heart.  "With  her  large  red 
hands  she  smoothed  Fannie's  head  upon  each  side — 
there  was  magnetism  in  the  touch  of  Aunt  Beckey,  so 
soothing,  so  motherly  was  it,  and  when  she  said  in  her 
loud  rich  voice, 

"  You  poor,  dear  critter,  you"' — -the  words  conveyed 
a  volume  of  kindly  meaning. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  said  Fannie,  rising 
upon  her  elbow,  "  and  Imogen  will  be  glad  too,  we 
expect  her  every  minute.  When  she  comes  I  shall 
give  her  this  bouquet,  and  then  the  dear  will  have  so 
much  to  tell  me,  and  the  house  will  be  so  cheerful,  and 
we  will  go  out  every  day.  I  'm  not  quite  well  just  now, 
but  I  shall  be  better  when  she  comes  back,  you  know.' 

Aunt  Beckey  took  the  sufferer  in  her  arms,  and  the 
tears  streamed  from  her  eyes. 

"  The  Lord's  will  be  done,"  she  ejaculated,  wiping 
the  pale  lips  of  Fannie. 


414  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"Yes,"  she  responded,  "we  have  learned  to  say 
that,  and  now  I  am  having  the  loveliest  robes  made — 
for  Imogen  is  going  to  be  christened  the  Sabbath  after 
she  returns,  and  then  George  and  I  are  going  to  be — 
what  is  it,  George,  that  we  were  talking  about  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  get  stronger,  Fannie,  dear,  so  that 
we  may  go  into  the  country." 

"  Oh  yes,  soon  as  Imogen  comes,  we  would  n't  be 
away  then,  you  know.  Look  out,  George,  I  heard 
something.  Put  back  the  curtains,  dear,  the  moon  is 
very  bright,  I  am  glad  of  that,"  and  the  full  moon 
shone  in  upon  her  pale  face,  as  if  it  lighted  up  a  mar 
ble  shape. 

Aunt  Beckey  took  her  small  hands,  so  colorless,  so 
cold,  and  lifeless  in  their  look,  between  both  of  hers ; 
and  then  the  warm  life  therefrom  passed  soothingly 
over  the  shattered  nerves  of  the  sufferer,  and  she  slept. 
But  in  her  sleep  the  tears  fell  slowly  from  her  eyes, 
and  the  heart  of  the  bereaved  mother  betrayed  its 
agony  by  sobs  and  deep  groans. 

"  This  won't  last  long,"  said  Aunt  Beckey,  sitting 
hour  after  hour  as  we  have  described.  "  The  poor 
dear  heart  is  breaking  fast." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  soon  be  alone.  Oh  God,  why  am  I 
thus  afflicted  ?"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  walking  the 
room. 

"  The  Lord  is  my  rock  and  my  defence,  a  very 


AUNT    BECKEY'S    HOUSEKEEPING.    415 

present  help  in  every  time  of  trouble.  Kemember  this, 
Cousin  Greorge,"  said  Aunt  Beckey. 

For  a  period  after  the  arrival  of  Aunt  Beckey, 
Fannie  evidently  improved.  The  generous  vitalism 
of  the  good  creature  imparted  itself  to  her,  and  the 
languid  blood  coursed  more  freely  through  her  veins, 
while  painful  memories  wore  themselves  into  indistinct 
ness.  When  weary  and  disturbed,  Aunt  Beckey  sat 
upon  the  verge  of  the  bed  and  patted  her  shoulders 
with  her  warm,  motherly  hand,  and  croned  old  pious 
hymns,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  invalid  wandered  back 
to  the  days  of  her  early  youth,  or  out  into  the  eternal 
unseen  future. 

Then  Aunt  Beckey  had  a  thousand  simple  and 
comforting  ways  about  her,  that  went  right  into  the 
weak,  aching  body,  and  soothed  it  all  over  like  a  warm 
poultice.  Her  voice  was  loud,  but  it\was  so  equal,  so 
rich,  and  came  so  entirely  from  the  heart-side  of  the 
body,  that  its  very  loudness  was  its  best  quality,  so  en 
tirely  did  it  reach  the  poor  weak,  suffering  spot  of  the 
hearer.  When  Aunt  Beckey  leaned  over  and  laid  that 
large  hand  of  hers  over  poor  Fannie's  faint-beating 
heart,  it  grew  stronger  at  once,  and  her  "  poor,  dear 
critter,  I  know  how  it  feels,  I  Ve  been  just  so,  many 's 
the  time,"  you  knew  Aunt  Beckey  spoke  figuratively, 
for  she  never  had  a  pain  in  her  life,  but  it  eased  you 
to  hear  her  say  it. 


416  THE    NEWSBOY. 

And  then  she  made  nice,  cool  drinks  ;  and  when 
she  put  her  hand  behind  Fannie's  neck  and  lifted  her 
up,  it  sent  a  soothing  thrill  to  every  sense  of  the  suf 
ferer. 

"  If  I  could  only  give  her  a  cough,  or  a  cold,  a 
fever,  or  a  liver  complaint,  I  could  cure  her  at  once," 
cried  Aunt  Beckey,  "but  it's  all  in  the  heart — all 
here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  over  her  own  broad 
ample  space  for  a  heart. 

Dady  had  interested  Fannie  for  awhile,  but  now 
she  regarded  little  about  her.  Even  Bob,  and  her  be 
lief  that  he  would  bring  back  her  lost  child,  grew  in 
distinct  to  her  mind. 

Aunt  Beckey  had  much  to  do  in  regulating  the 
household  of  her  kinsman,  which  was  sadly  in  need 
of  a  careful  housekeeper.  She  began  at  the  attic,  and 
every  room  was  not  only  carefully  inspected,  but  rig 
orously  cleaned.  With  knitting-work  in  hand,  knit 
ting  as  she  went,  Aunt  Beckey  passed  from  place  to 
place,  directing  the  movements  of  the  servants  with  a 
careful  thrift.  At  night  Cousin  George  might  have 
sometimes  felt  annoyed  at  the  details  of  shaking, 
scrubbing,  and  "putting  away,"  but  Aunt  Beckey's 
good  heart  was  easily  led  off  into  another  channel. 

It  was  really  a  sight  worth  seeing  to  follow  her 
from  place  to  place,  with  a  troop  of  wondering  Irish 
girls  in  train,  to  whom  she  laid  down  the  law,  show- 


AUNT   BEG  KEY'S    HOUSEKEEPING.    417 

ing  them  exactly  how  everything  was  to  be  done ;  but 
it  was  better  to  witness  her  amazement,  when  she 
came  back  two  hours  afterwards,  and  found  all  pre 
cisely  as  she  had  left  it. 

Aunt  Beckey,  dear  soul,  could  n't  scold,  her  voice 
was  not  adapted  to  it ;  but  the  way  she  appealed  to 
the  "principle"  and  the  "conscience"  of  the  poor 
Biddies,  was  touching  in  the  extreme. 

"  How  do  you  ever  expect  to  get  along  if  you  have 
no  trust  in  you  ?  Don't  you  ,know  that  the  Lord  hates 
eye-service  ?  Did  not  I  show  you  exactly  how  that 
was  to  be  done  ?  and  have  you  done  it  ?" 

In  this  way  good  Aunt  Beckey  would  appeal,  and 
then  Biddy  would  make  a  great  show  of  work. 

"  Don't  flirt  the  broom  so  high — look  here,"  and 
then  she  moved  the  broom  as  a  good  housewife  will. 
"As  I'm  a  live  woman,  you 're  washing  them  win 
dows  with  a  fine  damask  towel."  Of  course  Biddy 
was,  and  will  do  the  same  to-morrow,  for  she  does  not 
know  the  value  of  what  she  uses.  And  then  Aunt 
Beckey  thought  Biddy's  pocket  too  protuberant,  and 
she  took  opportunity  to  examine  it;  and  found  bits  of 
sugar,  and  dabs  of  tea,  and  sundry  hard  cakes.  Not  a 
word  could  Aunt  Beckey  utter  at  the  sight  of  such 
enormities,  except, 

"  Mark  my  words,  you  '11  bring  yourself  to  some 
dreadful  end  if  you  go  on  in  this  way." 
18* 


418  THE   NEWSBOY. 

But  when  Biddy,  crying  and  protesting,  told  of  a 
sister  whom  she  was  about  to  visit,  and  added,  "Do 
you  think  I  '11  be  ateing  the  tay  and  the  sugar,  and 
she  never  a  bit  ?"  Aunt  Beckey's  kind  heart  relented, 
and  she  rather  added  to  the  stock  in  Biddy's  pocket. 

"These  Irish  are  the  try  ingest  critters  in  the 
world,"  she  would  exclaim.  "  There  is  no  end  to  their 
wasting.  They  'd  rake  out  the  ashes  with  a  silver 
spoon  just  as  quick  as  the  poker,  and  wipe  every  dish 
on  the  table-cloths,  if  I  did  n't  watch  them  after  every 
meal.  They  stow  away  old  bones  and  broken  bread 
on  the  nicest  china  plates,  and  smash  cut-glass 
tumblers  into  pails  and  kettles,  till  every  one  of  'em 
has  a  nick  in  the  side !" 

Gradually  Aunt  Beckey  grew  resigned,  as  New 
York  housekeepers  learn  to  be.  She  ceased  to  give 
out  the  law.  She  ceased  to  say,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you 
thus  and  so?"  expecting  obedience  would  follow.  She 
learned  to  admonish  little,  and  expect  less  from  this 
unthrifty  part  of  the  community,  and  she  learned  at 
length  to  feel  a  relenting  pity,  when  after  some  terri 
ble  blunder  which  Biddy  had  committed  in  her  igno 
rance,  she  met  her  blank  look  of  amazement  and  con 
trition. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  I  believe  the  Irish  are  half  natu 
ral  born  fools,  every  one  of  them,"  she  would  exclaim ; 
"  and  they  ought  to  be  thankful,  every  day  they  live, 


AUNT   BECKEY'S   HOUSEKEEPING.    419 

that  they  can  come  to  this  country  and  learn  some 
thing." 

"  Bad  luck  to  the  day  that  ever  I  left  ould  Ire 
land,"  Biddy  would  mutter.  "  Never 's  a  day  pass'd 
but  I  'se  repented  of  it." 

This  touched  Aunt  Beckey's  patriotism.  "  "Why 
don't  you  go  back,  every  one  of  you  ?  'T  would  be 
better  for  us  if  the  country  was  rid  of  every  soul  of 
you."  And  she  spake  with  a  warmth,  you  may  be 
sure. 

When  Biddy,  after  a  silence,  began  to  crone 

"  I  'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morning,  long  ago, 
"When  first  you  were  my  bride  ;" 

Aunt  Beckey  gave  in  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  and 
never  failed  to  declaim  for  awhile  upon  the  wrongs  of 
Ireland,  and  the  injustice  of  England. 

"  Ireland  is  the  beautifulest  counthry,  ma'am," 
Biddy  would  say,  emboldened  by  the  sympathy  of  the 
good  spinster.  "  Nothing  is  bad  there  but  the  gov 
ernment.  An  Irish  pig,  ma'am,  grows  as  fast  again 
as  an  American  pig ;  and  I  never  saw  such  potatees  in 
this  counthry  as  we  have  in  Ireland — it's  all  one  as  a 
little  bag  of  flour  entirely  it  is,  that  '11  melt  in  your 
mouth ;  and  then  the  sop  of  Irish  milk,  ma'am,  goes 
further  than  the  milk  of  America ;  and  the  beautiful- 


420  THE    NEWSBOY. 

est  flowers  we  have  there,  ma'am ;  I  Ve  seen  violets 
under  a  hedge  of  the  size  of  your  hand ;  and  roses, 
ma'am,  roses  in  Ireland  are  as  large  as  a  cabbage  in 
this  counthry." 

Aunt  Beckey's  tender  spot  had  been  touched  by 
the  lament  of  the  emigrant,  or  she  could  never  have 
listened  to  these  disparaging  comparisons.  The  good 
creature  was  scathed  in  the  milk  of  her  own  human 
kindness,  and  taken  unawares.  Still  the  exaggera 
tion  touched  her  conscientiousness,  and  she  bade 
Biddy 

"  Be  careful  not  to  stretch  the  stocking  too  wide, 
there's  reason  in  all  things.  You  must  remember, 
Biddy,  we  read  about  Ireland  in  this  country,  and 
know  something.  Still  I  respect  you  for  upholding 
your  own  country." 


LIV. 

m  at 


BOB,  at  the  urgent  solicitation  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor, 
still  occupied  the  room  adjoining  that  of  Imogen,  and 
Dadj,  under  careful  nursing,  grew  every  day  more 
beautiful  and  attractive.  Aunt  Beckey  had  at  length 
adjusted  herself  to  the  household,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  benign  or  more  refreshing  to  the  heart  than 
her  whole  administration.  She  was  not  without  her 
New  England,  and  most  especially  Maine  pride  of 
birth.  She  loved  to  expatiate  upon  births,  deaths,  and 
marriages,  and  refer  to  registers  which  went  to  show 
that  all  proprieties  had  been  rigorously  observed.  She 
told  Bob  it  was  a  thousand  pities  his  friends  had  n't 
brought  over  the  family  Bible  to  prove  that  all  was 
square  and  fair.  But  as  to  Dady,  the  case  was  differ 
ent  ;  there  was  no  manner  of  doubt  her  birth  was  a  dis 
reputable  one,  and  the  only  thing  was  to  make  the  best 
of  it  ;  and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  of  several  instances 
in  which  "  the  parties  had  turned  out  well,  and  be- 


4:22  THE   NEWSBOY. 

came  ornaments  to  society,  and  burning  and  sinning 
lights  in  the  church." 

Bob  listened  with  interest,  and  felt  he  had  much  to 
learn,  for  all  these  ideas  of  respectability  were  entirely 
new  doctrines  to  him. 

"  Dady  shall  never  lack  a  friend  or  protector  while 
I  live,"  he  would  say. 

"  That  speaks  well  of  you,"  resumed  Aunt  Beckey ; 
"  but  it 's  a  thousand  pities  that  she  should  be  born  as 
she  was  in  a  Christian,  law-abiding  country  like  ours, 
where  the  minister  is  upon  every  side,  and  the  mar 
riage-fee  only  a  dollar." 

"  I  Ve  sometimes  thought  people  might  be  ashamed 
of  Dady  and  me,  and  I  'm  not  the  one  to  be  in  the  way 
of  people's  feelings,"  mused  the  Newsboy. 

Then  Aunt  Beckey  fixed  her  round  eyes  upon  his 
face,  and  looked  at  him  with  such  a  cordial,  benign 
look,  and  hugged  up  Dady  in  such  a  motherly  way,  that 
Bob  put  aside  his  misgivings,  the  more  as  he  was  now 
learning  rapidly  to  read  and  write,  and  was  improving 
himself  in  many  ways. 

One  evening  after  a  restless  day  on  the  part  of 
Fannie,  Aunt  Beckey  sat  upon  the  verge  of  the  bed 
humming, 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 
"Where  saints  immortal  reign, 
Infinite  day  excludes  the  night 
And  pleasures  banish  pain." 


UTHE  WEARY    ARE   AT    REST.''     423 

The  sufferer  opened  her  eyes  and  peered  out  into 
the  room,  at  first  with  a  smile,  and  then  it  changed 
to  one  of  deep  sadness. 

"  She  has  n't  come,  George,  has  she  ?  I  thought  I 
heard  her  step  on  the  stairs." 

Alas !  sorrowing  mother,  that  step  will  return  no 
more  to  thee.  The  weary  heart  shall  cease  its  beating, 
and  yet  it  comes  not. 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood, 

Stand  drest  in  living  green  ; 
So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood 
"While  Jordan  rolled  between," 

Aunt  Beckey  sung  out  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice,  still 
patting  the  shoulder  of  Fannie,  who  had  relapsed  into 
an  imperfect  sleep. 

"  'Sweet  fields  beyond,'  and  only  a  narrow  stream 
between,"  ejaculated  Fannie,  in  a  full  tone,  her  eyes 
glowing  with  a  new  light. 

"  Why  did  you  not  take  me  home,  George  ?  I 
wanted  to  go." 

"  Where  home,  darling  Fannie." 

"  To  Brunswick,  George.  Oh,  I  hear  the  old  pines 
by  the  river  whisper,  whisper,  and  in  the  little  grave 
yard  over  the  white  stones.  Do  you  remember,  dear, 
when  we  walked  there,  and  we  were  lovers  then,  and 
so  happy.  George,  dear,  have  n't  we  been  very  happy? 
Have  n't  I  always  been  your  dear,  dear  little  Fannie?" 


424  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  God  only  knows  how  dear  you  are  to  me,  my 
sweet  wife,  my  own  Fannie." 

"  But  do  you  remember,  George,  that  great  snake, 
so  large  and  black,  that  crossed  our  path,  just  when 
we  talked  of  our  love  ?" 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  recalled  the  circumstance  with  a  cold 
chill. 

"  I  am  very  weak,  dear  George.  Carry  me  home, 
will  you,  dear.  Do  carry  me  home,  George." 

"  You  shall  go,  Fannie.  Be  quiet  to-night,  Fannie, 
and  to-morrow — •" 

"  To-morrow,"  repeated  the  sufferer,  looking  up 
ward.  "  Oh,  to-morrow  seems  so  far  away ;"  and  then 
she  sank  backward  upon  the  pillows. 


'  I  would  not  live  alway,  I  ask  not  to  stay, 
Where  storm  after  storm,  rises  dark  o'er  my  "way," 


sang  out  Aunt  Beckey  in  mellow  tones,  and  the  tears 
swelled  under  the  lids  of  Fannie  as  she  listened,  and 
then  said  calmly, 

"  George,  dear,  I  see  the  home  to  which  I  go  is  not 
the  old  one,  in  which  we  learned  to  love — not  that, 
dearest,  but  in  our  Father's  house.  Come  to  me  there, 
won't  you,  George?" 

"  I  will,  I  will,  and  I  care  not  how  soon,"  answered 
the  husband,  kneeling  beside  her. 


"TiiE  WEARY   ARE    AT    BEST."     425 

"  And  Imogen — our  two  hearts  will  draw  her  like 
a  golden  chain  upward,  George." 

Awhile  she  was  silent,  and  then  her  face  became  ir 
radiated  with  a  bright  glowing  beauty — and  she  said 
in  a  voice  louder  than  even  her  wonted  tone,  for 

" her  voice  was  always  low 

An  excellent  thing  in  woman," 

"Look,  George,  she  is  there — our  beautiful  child. 
I  see  her,  there  by  the  palm4ree.  Look !"  She  point 
ed  with  her  slender  finger  into  the  distance.  "  Come 
here,  Bob,  you  will  bring  her  home.  You  will  know 
where  to  go.  Oh !  she  will  come,  and  no  mother  to 
meet  her.  She  will  come,  and  I  not  here !  No 
mother,  no  mother,  only  a  green  mound,  and  a  white 
stone,  and  an  empty  chair — George,  George,  keep  me, 
keep  me  till  she  comes." 

Then  the  vision  brightened,  and  she  cried,  "  Yes, 
Bob,  look,  there  is  a  bright  flash  of  water  from  the 
fountain  under  the  palms.  Beautiful  birds  and  flowers 
are  there — the  air  is  full  of  glittering  insects  with 
wings  of  gold  ;  and  there,  there  with  her  hands  folded, 
and  her  eyes  upon  mine,  is  my  child,  our  child,  dear 
George.  Strange  flowers  are  at  her  feet — a  wilderness 
of  rare  and  lovely  plants — but  hush,  look  1  look ! 
there  is  the  black  serpent,  George,  the  black  snake  of 
Brunswick  pines  trailing  amid  them  all — hark !  there 


426  THE    NEWSBOY. 

is  music — she  sees  the  snake — she  does  not  fear  it — 
no,  she  looks  upward — she  sees  an  angel  in  the  sky. 
George,  George,  it  is  her  mother,  it  is  I,  your  Fan 
nie—" 

And  even  while  she  spoke,  the  heavenly  gates, 

"  self-opened  wide, 
On  golden  hinges  turning," 

let  in  an  angel  manifest,  escaped  the  dim  shade  and 
sorrowing  tears  of  earth,  transformed  into  the  divine 
image  of  the  pure  soul,  which  had  longed  to  be  thus 
revealed. 

Aunt  Beckey  kissed  the  white  forehead,  as  she 
laid  it  back  upon  the  pillow.  But  Mr.  Dinsmoor  him 
self  wiped  away  the  tears  that  still  lay  upon  the  dead 
cheek — the  homesick  tear  of  the  weary  heart  longing 
for  its  home.  All  knelt  by  the  bed-side,  and  then 
Aunt  Beckey  uttered, 

"  Though  I  walk  through  the  dark  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil ;"  and,  unconscious 
that  she  did  so,  her  lips  poured  themselves  in  prayer; 
the  good  loving  heart  spoke  spontaneously  in.  this 
hour  of  need.  Then  she  arose  and  led  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
from  the  room,  leaving  the  Newsboy  alone  with  the 
dead. 

"  Oh  them  that  have  the  light  need  n't  fear  the 
dying,"  he  said  to  himself.  "You  will  see  dear  Min- 


"THE  WEARY   ARE    AT   BEST."      427 

nie,  where  you  've  gone.  Don't,  don't  forget  poor 
Bob,"  and  he  kissed  the  little  dead  hand.  "  I  '11  seek 
for  Silver-tongue  to  the  ends  of  the  arth,  I  will.  And 
now  my  work  is  done  here.  Poor  Flashy  Jack — I 
will  go  to  him  till  all  is  over,  and  then  look  for  Silver- 
tongue.  I  wonders  if  there 's  any  place  meant  for  Bob 
in  this  world.  I  wonders  if  any  heart  could  comfort 
Bob's,  or  anybody  feel  to  love  him  !" 

"  I  will  comfort  Bob,  and  love  him,"  answered 
Aunt  Beckey,  opening  her  arms  and  clasping  the 
Newsboy  tenderly  within  them.  "Poor  boy!  I  will 
comfort  you.  I  know  you  must  have  felt  the  need  of 
a  mother  many  's  the  time,  and  now  Aunt  Beckey  will 
be  a  mother  to  you,  and  take  care  of  you,  and  teach 
you,  my  poor  boy." 

Bob  6ould  only  weep.  He  had  ministered  much 
and  often  to  others,  but  never  been  "ministered 
unto ;"  and  now  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  lying  so 
hushed  and  heavenly  still,  this  poor  neglected  boy 
found  one  heart  large  enough,  and  generous  enough 
to  take  him  within  itself,  without  question,  and  with 
out  stint ;  and  never  from  that  day  did  Aunt  Beckey 
swerve  from  her  office.  Never  did  she  look  upon 
him  as  an  outcast,  whom  it  might  be  shame  to  love ; 
but  once  beholding  him  as  he  was,  the  true  Bob,  seen 
for  the  first  time  now  in  the  presence  of  the  beatified 


428  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Fannie,  she  loved  Mm  with  a  maternal  fondness,  as 
beautiful  and  simple  as  it  was  unexpected. 

From  this  time  Bob  found  one  who,  pitying  his 
ignorance,  loved  him  so  tenderly  that  she  sought  in 
every  way  to  enlighten  it.  And  really  it  was  a  lovely 
sight  to  witness  Aunt  Beckey  instructing  the  youth  ; 
he  so  simple  in  heart,  though  familiar  with  all  the 
vice,  and  misery,  and  crime  of  a  great  metropolis,  in 
the  which  he  had  lived,  from  his  earliest  recollections, 
without  help  except  from  those  nearly  as  destitute  as 
himself.  Bob  was  so  single-hearted,  so  quick  to  learn, 
so  grateful,  and  withal  so  primitive  in  his  views,  that 
it  was,  as  Aunt  Beckey  said,  "  a  labor  of  love  to  teach 
him." 

Never  did  two  extremes  more  fairly  meet  than  in 
this  experience  of  Aunt  Beckey  and  the  Newsboy.  He 
so  ignorant,  so  simple,  great,  and  true-hearted,  coming 
as  he  did  out  of  the  very  dregs  of  New  York  life,  and 
she  equally  great-hearted,  pure,  and  loving,  but 
coming  from  a  rural  district  whose  inhabitants  were 
primitive,  pious,  and  in  the  highest  degree  pure- 
minded  in  character  and  orthodox  in  faith ;  yet  there 
sat  the  two  so  alike  in  their  inner  life,  that  you  might 
have  thought  them  mother  and  child. 

A  splendid  monument  of  marble,  overhung  with 
magnificent  trees,  and  made  attractive  by  flowers  of 
every  hue  and  shape,  but  most  the  rose,  marks  the 


"THE  WEARY  ARE  AT  BEST."       429 

resting-place  of  the  wife  of  the  rich  merchant.  Often 
did  the  bereaved  husband  pass  whole  days  in  the 
shelter  of  the  marble,  and  often  did  Aunt  Beckey  and 
Bob  resort  thither  to  shed  tears  of  sincere  grief  at  the 
grave  of  the  beautiful  mourner,  whose  heart  had  ceased 
from  her  sorrow. 

At  these  times  Bob  with  his  new  friend  would 
turn  aside  to  the  humble  stone  of  the  Newsboy  and 
Mary,  and  then  Bob  repeated  their  story  and  wept 
anew,  for  Aunt  Beckey's  tears  fell  fast  at  the  recital. 
It  was  long  before  he  took  her  down  to  Staten  Island, 
and  pointed  out  the  resting-place  of  little  Minnie ;  and 
when  he  did  do  so,  it  seemed  to  Bob  that  for  the  first 
time  he  had  in  reality  wept  at  her  departure,  for  Aunt 
Beckey,  sitting  there  in  the  warm  sunshine,  with  the 
early  autumn  leaves  falling  around  her,  and  the  con 
tinuous  roar  of  the  great  sea  sounding  so  mysteriously 
to  the  senses,  found  herself  melted  to  a  tone  of  un 
wonted  tenderness,  as  if  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  felt  how  majestic  is  nature,  how  wonderful  life. 


LV. 


AUNT  BECKEY  was  greatly  scandalized  at  the  late 
ness  of  New  York  hours  for  rising.  She  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  leaving  her  bed  before  the  sun  came  from 
his  watery  couch,  and  she  wandered  like  an  unlaid 
ghost  about  the  house  for  many  hours  in  the  morning 
while  others  slept. 

"  Eise  with  the  lark,  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb," 
she  would  cry  in  her  cheery  voice,  as  in  her  plain 
calico  gown  and  white  kerchief,  she  walked  up  and 
down  the  hall  of  the  great  house,  with  work  in  hand, 
waiting  the  morning  advent  of  the  family.  Hour 
after  hour  passed,  and  yet  all  was  silent.  Nobody 
looked  out  to  see  the  good,  patient  creature,  weary 
of  work,  everything  dusted,  everything  in  order,  wait 
ing  when  others  should  begin  the  day. 

Early  as  it  was,  Bob  had  been  long  in  the  field, 
selling  the  morning  papers,  and  looking  in  upon  his 


GRIEF    OF   THE    MAGDALEN.        431 

old  friends,  for  the  Newsboys  are  all  early  risers.  He 
had  been  entrusted  with  a  night-key,  and  thus  was 
able  to  come  and  go  at  his  pleasure. 

"Well,  I  declare!  was  there  ever?"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Beckey,  seeing  Bob  enter  the  house  in  this  way 
one  morning,  long  before  the  appearance  of  the  family. 
"  Where  have  you  been  so  airly,  Bob?  afore  anybody 
in  the  house  is  a  stirring,  which  I  consider  is  a  sin  and 
a  shame,  letting  alone  the  loss  of  time,  and  the  ruin 
of  health  consequent  upon  late  hours." 

Bob,  as  early  as  it  was,  had  been  to  sell  his  papers, 
and  had  given  an  hour  to  poor  Maggie,  whom  he 
found  locked  in  her  room,  and  evidently  unused  for  a 
long  time  to  sleep. 

He  knocked  several  times  without  receiving  any 
answer,  though  the  steady  scuff  of  a  pair  of  feet  were 
heard  slowly  moving  over  the  floor  inside. 

"  Maggie,  it's  Bob,  open  the  door,  Maggie.  'Cause 
why  ?  I 's  your  friend,  and  Jack's  friend,  Maggie." 

At  the  next  turn  of  the  feet  the  scuffing  ap 
proached  the  door,  the  key  was  turned  but  no  latch 
lifted,  and  Bob  raised  it  himself  and  went  in.  Mag 
gie's  petticoats  were  half  falling  from  her  waist,  and  a 
loose  shawl  supplied  the  absence  of  hooks  and  buttons 
in  place  of  the  jaunty  boddice  which  once  lent  such 
piquancy  to  her  full,  handsome  figure.  The  boddice, 
and  the  crimson  gaiters,  and  a  smart  petticoat,  hung 


432  THE    NEWSBOY. 

about  the  room  apparently  forgotton  by  its  occupant. 
A  small  kettle,  which  had  evidently  boiled  itself  dry, 
sat  upon  a  portable  furnace,  about  which  the  white 
ashes  were  scattered  amid  half-burned  dead  cinders. 
The  blinds  were  closed  in,  but  a  ray  of  light  strug 
gled  through  a  broken  bar,  and  fell  upon  the  glazed 
fireman's  belt  and  cap  of  Flashy  Jack,  and  one  of 
each  of  smaller  size,  which  it  had  been  the  pride  and 
glory  of  Maggie  to  wear  by  his  side.  Upon  the  little 
table  covered  with  dust  were  two  daguerreotypes,  that 
of  Maggie  was  clasped,  but  Flashy  Jack's  was  open 
and  covered  with  tears. 

Maggie  had  grown  thin  and  haggard  •  she  did  not 
stay  her  heavy  feet  at  the  entrance  of  Bob,  nor  did 
she  speak  to  him,  but  walked  back  and  forth,  silent 
and  pale,  and  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

Bob  took  her  hand  in  his,  but  she  drew  it  back 
without  lifting  her  eyes,  and  continued  her  walk.  He 
approached  her  side  and  put  his  arm  in  a  brotherly 
manner  about  her  waist.  At  this  she  looked  up  so  woe 
begone,  that  the  Newsboy  could  only  weep  with  her. 

"  Sit  down,  Maggie,  and  tell  me  how  it  is  ?"  and 
he  placed  her  in  her  little  rocking-chair,  and  taking 
another  chair  himself,  poor  Maggie  leaned  her  head 
upon  his  knee  in  silence. 

"  How  is  Flashy  Jack  ?"  asked  the  Newsboy,  hop 
ing  to  rouse  her  from  her  stupor  of  grief. 


GRIEF    OF   THE    MAGDALEN.        433 

"  He  is  condemned  to  die,"  she  answered,  without 
a  change  of  feature. 

"  Poor  Jack  !  he  was  so  handsome,  so  good." 

"  Nobody  cares  for  us,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  They  think  we  has  no  hearts,  no  affections,  Mag 
gie,  because  we 's  never  had  friends  nor  home." 

"  I  wish  Jack  and  I  had  robbed,  and  murdered, 
and  burned  houses,  and  then  we  should  have  some 
thing  to  die  for ;"  and  Maggie  lifted  up  her  head  and 
put  back  her  tangled  hair  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  would  a  done  it  but  for  the  lights  in  you, 
Maggie.  But  let  me  get  you  some  breakfast,  and 
you  :11  feel  better." 

"  No,  no,  I  can't  eat — I  can't  swallow — every  time 
I  try  I  think  of  poor  Jack.  Oh  dear,  dear,  I  wish  I 
was  dead.  Bob,  bring  me  some  brandy,  bring  me  some 
laudanum,  help  me  to  die,  Bob,  help  me  to  forget. 
Where 's  the  use  of  living  ?  I  wish  I  'd  never  been 
born,  I  wish  they  'd  a  killed  me  when  I  was  a  baby. 
Oh,  Bob,  kill  me,  kill  me,"  and  she  cast  her  arms 
about  in  a  wild,  frantic  manner. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  low  knock  at  the  door, 
which  Bob  rising  to  open  encountered  our  old  friend 
Skillings,  in  a  plain  suit  of  black  and  a  white  cravat, 
with  a  small  Bible  under  his  arm.  Bob  did  not  recog 
nize  him,  but  Maggie,  annoyed  at  the  entrance  of  a 

stranger,  sprang  to  her  feet  and'  tightened  her  shawl 

19 


4:34  THE    NEWSBOY. 

over  her  shoulders,  while  she  eyed  the  stranger  with  a 
wild,  haggard  face,  that  left  a  doubt  whether  insanity 
were  not  there. 

"  I  am  come,  sister,  to  say  a  few  words  with  you 
upon  this  trying  occasion ;  I  wish  to  urge  upon  you 
the  necessity  of  repentance  and — " 

Maggie  extended  her  hand  to  the  door,  "  Go  1"  she 
said. 

"  I  am  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  seeking  the  good 
of  "souls,"  continued  the  man,  in  a  milky  tone  of  voice, 
and  clipping  his  words  short,  as  if  they  hurt  him. 

"  You  are  a  liar  and  an  impostor.  Go  1"  repeated 
Maggie,  still  pointing  her  finger. 

The  man  instead  of  going,  approached  her,  and  at 
tempted  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

"  Go  I"  repeated  the  girl,  turning  sharply  upon  him 
with  a  spit  into  his  face,  and  he  did  go,  clattering  down 
over  the  rickety  stairs,  and  swearing  in  a  very  un- 
apostolic  manner. 

"  Oh  these  wretches  would  sink  us  to  h — 1.  I  'm  sick, 
sick.  Bob,  I  Ve  longed  for  the  drink,  so  that  I  may 
forget  my  misery  ;  but  Jack,  poor,  clear  Jack  ! — Jack 
made  me  promise  never  to  drink — and  I  Ve  minded 
him,  Bob,  I  Ve  minded  him  when  my  head 's  been  on 
fire,  and  my  heart  a  flame — " 

"  Mind  him  still,  there's  a  good  girl,  Maggie. 
Jack  loved  you,  he  did—-" 


GRIEF   OF    THE    MAGDALEN.        435 

"Oh,  that  he  did;  and  Bob,  I'd  die  in  his  place, 
I  would.  I  would  willingly  stand  under  the  gallows 
in  his  place.  Oh  there' s  no  misery  I  would  n't  endure 
to  save  him — poor,  dear  Jack  !" 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Maggie,"  continued  Bob. 
"  Sit  down  and  drink  this  cup  of  milk  I  have  brought." 

"  Jack 's  often  said  that,  Bob,"  replied  Maggie, 
pushing  the  bowl  aside.  "I  think  Jack  wanted  to 
make  me  like — I  don't  know  what  like,  but  do  you  re 
member  the  Nun  Isabella  in  the  play  ?  and  then  there 
was  a  picture  of  her  in  the  Apollo,  and  Jack  and  I 
would  talk  about  it  all ;  but  then  when  there  was  any 
fun,  Jack  and  I  could  n't  help  going  to  it,  and  now  it 's 
all  come  to  this." 

"  What  will  you  do  now,  Maggie  ?"  asked  the  News 
boy. 

"Do?  stay  here  in  this  place  till  I  die,  Bob." 

""Will  you  not  go  with  Sister  Agnace  and  the 
strange  Nun,  Maggie  ?" 

"]STo,  no,  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  strange  Nun 
weeping;  and  I  can't  pray — oh  their  prayers  weary 
me.  Go,  Bob,  do  go,  I  am  so  happy  when  I  have  no 
thing  to  take  my  thoughts  from  Jack.  I  grow  quite 
content  and  happy  when  I  am  alone,"  she  said,  opening 
the  door  for  him  to  go,  and  hurrying  him  out  as  if  she 
had  some  great  good  in  store,  which  his  presence  held 
back. 


436  THE   NEWSBOY. 

The  Newsboy  descended  the  stairs,  and  there  en 
countered  Yoppy,  and  Charley,  and  several  other 
Newsboys,  who  had  come  to  know  something  of  Mag 
gie  ;  for  they  had  all  learned  the  terrible  fate  which 
awaited  their  former  companion  and  favorite,  and  now 
these  boys  naturally  sought  to  alleviate  the  suffering 
of  one  so  devotedly  attached  to  him  as  had  been  Mag 
gie,  for  so  long  a  time. 

They  each  had  some  small  pieces  of  coin  which 
would  provide  comforts  for  the  poor  girl,  and  Bob 
retraced  his  steps,  and  knocked  once  more  at  the 
door.  The  scuffing  feet  dragged  themselves  slowly, 
slowly  over  the  floor,  but  the  door  remained  unopened. 
The  boys  held  a  consultation,  and  each  one  peeped 
through  the  key -hole,  and  started  back  in  a  sort  of 
horror  at  the  change  in  the  appearance  of  Maggie. 

At  length  a  knock  louder  than  all  others,  brought 
her  to  the  door. 

"  Go  away,  will  you?  go  away — " 

"  Maggie,  we  's  got  some  money  for  you,  we  has, 
and  won't  let  you  want  for  a  thing,  we  won't ;  blast 
me  if  I  will,"  articulated  Yoppy,  in  a  stern  defiant 
voice,  eyeing  his  companions,  who  responded  in  a  like 
tone. 

Squinty,  who  was  a  short,  square* boy,  originally 
designed  to  be  six  feet  high,  but  the  ironizing  process 
to  which  he  had  been  all  his  life  subjected,  had  hard- 


GRIEF   OF   THE    MAGDALEN.        437 

cned  him  into  a  man  with  a  broad  chin,  and  project 
ing  forehead  at  the  height  of  four ;  so  there  he  stood 
a  stout,  firm,  little  old  man,  whom  nature  with  all  her 
coaxing,  and  desire  to  carry  out  her  plans,  was  unable 
to  lift  more  than  four  feet  into  the  air.  "  Keep  up, 
keep  up — you  shall  have  all  my  earnings,  only  barring 
enough  for  my  old  gray  cat.  Come  here,  Maggie,  and 
let  me  hook  you  up,  and  eat  a  bit,  and  you'll  feel 
better." 

As  he  spoke,  little  Squinty  arranged  poor  Maggie's 
dress  for  her,  and  held  some  drink  to  her  lips  which 
she  tasted  mechanically. 

"Don't  you  think  we  can  get  him  out,  Squinty  ?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"  No  manner  of  doubt  of  it.  Oh  we  '11  take  care 
of  Flashy  Jack,  we  will.  Keep  up,  Maggie,  we  shall 
want  you  to  help  us." 

"I'm  well,  I'm  strong,  boys;  I  can  do  anything," 
cried  Maggie,  with  sudden  animation. 

"There  's  a  brave  gal,"  cried  all  the  boys,  delighted 
at  the  change  in  her  manner.  "  Good-bye,  Maggie, 
we  '11  go  and  make  our  plans ;"  and  they  ran  down 
stairs,  leaving  Bob  to  close  the  door  behind  them. 

"  She  '11  die  when  Jack  does,  that 's  a  fact,"  articu 
lated  Yoppy.  Then  they  each  gathered  up  their  pa 
pers,  and  all  along  the  street  was  the  loud  cry  of  the 
Newsboys. 


438  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Bob  left  the  proceeds  of  his  morning  toil,  together 
with  the  contributions  of  the  Newsboys,  upon  the  lit 
tle  dusty  table,  and  went  out.  Maggie  followed  him 
to  the  door,  and  turned  the  key,  and  then  a  heavy 
groan  escaped  her;  and  then  the  slow  scuff,  scuff, 
sounded  along  the  floor,  now  nearing  the  window 
where  the  streak  of  light  played  upon  her  pale  face, 
showing  a  dark  line  around  the  large,  distressed-look 
ing  eyes,  and  then  there  was  a  slight  irregularity  of 
the  feet,  and  then  the  scuff  continued,  till  she  neared 
the  little  table  on  which  lay  the  daguerreotype  of 
Jack ;  and  then  there  was  a  pause,  and  you  were  sure 
another  tear  fell  upon  it. 


LYI. 


BOB  gave  these  particulars  to  Aunt  Beckey,  sitting 
with  Dady  at  her  knee,  whose  long,  beautiful  curls  she 
brushed  and  combed  the  while,  and  braided  and  tied 
in  a  club  behind  till  her  eyes  almost  burst  from  their 
sockets.  Bob  said  not  a  word  at  this,  but  when  the 
child  came  to  his  arms  he  caressed  her  tenderly. 

"  This  Maggie  you  tell  about,"  said  Aunt  Beckey, 
crossing  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  leaning  forward 
with  her  chin  upon  her  hand,  as  if  she  would  compact 
herself  in  order  to  hold  on  to  a  new  thought,  "this 
Maggie  is  Flashy  Jack's  wife,  poor  thing!"  and  her 
voice  took  its  very  loudest  and  roundest  kindly  tone, 
while  one  hand  drew  the  dress  up  high  upon  Dady's 
shoulders,  where  it  would  by  no  means  stay,  but 
slipped  off  again  and  showed  their  white  dimples. 

Bob  looked  puzzled.  "  Maggie  loves  Jack,  she 
does,  and  stays  to  home  and  minds  the  house,  and 
never  's  been  anywhere  without  him,"  he  answered. 


440  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  As  a  good  wife  does,"  answered  the  spinster 
judicially.  "But,  Bob,  I  want  to  know,  flat  and 
plain,  whether  she 's  his  wife,  united  in  the  holy  bonds 
of  matrimony,  for  better,  for  worse,  till  death  us  do 
part;"  and  the  good  creature  rose  majestically  to  her 
full  height,  inserted  the  needle  into  the  sheath,  and 
began  to  knit  in  the  manner  of  a  person  not  to  be 
trifled  with. 

"  They  's  acted  up  to  their  lights,"  answered  Bob. 

"Up  to  their  lights!"  ejaculated  Aunt  Beckey, 
4 '  as  if  there  was  any  absence  of  light  in  a  Chris 
tian  community,  with  bibles,  and  tracts,  and  preach 
ers  of  the  Gospel  upon  every  side;  and  every  man 
sitting  under  his  own  vine  and  fig-tree,  and  none  to 
make  him  afraid,  under  the  very  droppings  of  the 
sanctuary  also ;"  and  Aunt  Beckey  plied  her  needles 
with  great  activity. 

"  I  does  n't  know,  ma'am.  I  must  say,  I  knows 
very  little  about  these  things.  I 's  very  ignorant ;  and 
now  I  reads  and  writes  some,  I  doesn't  understand 
half  what  it  means." 

"Bob,  you're  no  better  than  the  heathen.  Why 
did  n't  you  go  into  the  house  of  God  and  learn  the 
duty  of  a  Christian  ?" 

"  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  did,  but  they  spoke  of  things 
there  that  I  had  no  means  of  knowing  what  they 
meant.  But  once,  ma'am,  I  learned  that  to  please 


GUILTY?  441 

God  we  must  love  one  another,  and  do  good  as  we 
have  opportunity ;  and  I  Ve  done  it,  ma'am,  I  never 
forgot  it,  and  Jack  and  Maggie  's  done  it  too." 

Aunt  Beckey  plumped  down  into  her  chair,  and 
her  round  cheek  fairly  burned  with  maiden  shame. 

"  Goodness  gracious !  how  scripter  can  be  wrested 
from  its  pulpit  meaning,"  she  ejaculated.  "  The  Eev. 
Mr.  Ichabod  Longwind  would  nev>er  believe  his  own 
ears  could  he  hear"  this." 

"  1 's  very  ignorant.  I  am  bound  to  believe  Flashy 
Jack  and  Maggie,  and  Yoppy  and  Squinty,  and  all  on 
us,  does  a  great  many  things  out  of  the  way  because 
we  knows  no  better.  But  how  should  we  learn  ?" 

"By  going  to  meeting,  and  covering  yourselves 
decently.  I  never  in  my  born  days  saw  such  a  set  of 
ragamuffins  as  come  round  this  house  looking  up  to 
the  windows  after  you,  Bob  ;  and  when  Dady  goes  out 
of  a  morning  to  take  the  air,  goodness  gracious  !  such 
a  set  as.  try  to  get  a  peep  at  her,  is  enough  to  drive  a 
Christian  woman  mad." 

11  They 's  my  friends,  ma'am,"  Bob  replied. 

"  Your  friends,  Bob !  I  'm  sorry  to  say  there  is  not 
a  respectable  looking  one  amongst  them." 

"If  you'd  only  seen  Maggie  and  Flashy  Jack, 
ma'am,  they  was  always  so  well  dressed !" 

"  Bob,  it  does  seem  to  me,  you  don't  know  your 
right  hand  from  your  left,"  this  was  said  in  a  very 

10* 


442  THE    NEWSBOY. 

solemn  manner,  the  knitting  needles  moving  at  a  fu 
nereal  pace.  After  a  long  pause  she  added,  a  blush  on 
her  cheek,  her  eyes  very  round,  and  the  corners  of  her 
lips  compressed, 

"Do  you  know,  Bob,  it's  my  opinion,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  would  be  the  opinion  of  the  Kev. 
Mr.  Ichabod  Longwind  also,  that  that  Maggie  of  whom 
you  speak  is  no  better  than  she  should  be  ?" 

Bob  opened  his  eyes  in  silence,  and  Aunt  Beckey, 
having  delivered  her  oracle,  plied  her  virtuous  needles 
without  another  word. 

A  long  time  Bob  sat  in  silence,  and  then  arose, 
saying  as  he  did  so,  "  We  sins  from  ignorance,  I  am 
clear  to  say ;  but  oh,  ma'am,  the  misery,  the  misery 
that 's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all !  No  home,  no  friend,  no 
teacher,  nothing  but  hunger  and  nakedness  ;  and  then 
there's  the  blood,  young  and  boiling,  and  the  brain 
asking  and  asking,  and  no  guide ;  and  then  there 's  the 
beauty,  and  the  tempter,  and  the  money,  and  the  evil 
life,  and  no  guide,  no  guide.  Oh,  ma'am,  if  we  sins, 
we  suffers  and  we  dies,  and  nobody  knows  nor  cares. 
If  'twant  for  Dady  and  Silver-tongue,  I  wouldn't 
mind  the  dying.  But  I  has  a  work  to*do,  and  I  will 
do  it,  and  then  good-bye,  good-bye,  great  riddle  of  a 
world ;"  and  Bob  went  out  quickly  to  hide  his  emo 
tion. 

It  is  not  my  design  to  give  the  details  of  the  trial 


GUILTY?  443 

and  condemnation  of  Flashy  Jack.  Legal  investiga 
tions  are  of  little  interest  except  to  the  professional 
man.  A  long  while  the  youth  lingered  in  prison,  and 
then  when  his  day  of  trial  came,  his  friends  were  not 
of  a  kind  to  ensure  much  favor  in  a  court  of  law. 
They  gave  in  their  testimony  as  to  the  good-hearted- 
ness  of  Flashy  Jack ;  he  was  declared  to  be  "  gallus," 

"  above-board,"  "  game,"  "  a  d 1  of  a  fellow,"  but 

somehow  none  of  these  qualities  availed  him  much  in 
the  eye  of  the  law.  Mr.  Dinsmore  went  out  of  his 
way  to  use  influence  in  his  behalf,  the  more  because 
of  the  interest  Flashy  Jack  had  manifested  in  regard 
to  Imogen.  Still  this  whole  state  of  life  was  un 
fathomable  to  the  orderly,  respectable,  wealthy  mer 
chant,  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  his  interfer 
ence  was  of  a  very  enthusiastic  character. 

The  long  confinement,  the  absence  of  all  kinds  of 
excitement  except  that  of  a  depressing  kind,  had 
wrought  painfully  upon  the  person  and  spirits  of  the 
youth,  and  he  was  often  heard  to  declare  that  he 
should  be  glad  when  it  was  all  over  with  him. 

"  Even  should  I  be  free  once  more,"  he  said  to 
Bob,  "  I  should  never  be  a  man  again.  My  mother  is 
dying,  poor  Maggie's  heart  is  broke,  and  the  whole 
world  is  changed  to  me.  Only  one  thing  remains, 
and  of  that  I  will  tell  you  before  I  die." 

And  so  month  after  month  wore  away,  and  then 


444  THE    NEWSBOY. 

came  the  trial,  as  we  have  said.  And  it  was  a  pitiful 
sight  to  see  the  Newsboys  crowd  to  the  court-room, 
and  the  stall- women,  and  idle,  vagrant  girls  and  boys, 
peering  here  and  there  to  catch  a  sight  of -handsome 
Jack.  When  he  appeared,  so  pale,  and  yet  so  beauti 
ful  in  their  eyes,  so  calm,  so  manly  still,  they  burst 
into  shouts,  and  tears,  and  lamentations,  which  the 
officers  found  it  difficult  to  quell.  Not  a  boy  or  girl 
in  the  Bowery  believed  in  his  guilt ;  but  the  witnesses 
were  all  from  another  part  of  the  city,  who  had  as  lit 
tle  sympathy  and  kindness  for  the  denizens  of  the 
Bowery,  as  the  French  have  for  the  English.  All 
these  swore  positively  that  the  youth  held  up  the 
knife  with  intent  to  kill.  They  affirmed  that  he 
sought  the  quarrel,  exasperated  Peter,  and  then 
coolly  took  his  life.  A  large  number  testified  so 
positively  to  this  effect,  that  little  seemed  left  for  the 
jury  to  do  but  pronounce  him  guilty. 

The  counsel  appointed  by  the  court  for  the  youth, 
pleaded,  but  in  a  luke-warm  way,  as  if  his  own  mind 
was  fully  confident  of  his  guilt.  He  made  an  appeal 
in  behalf  of  his  youth,  and  the  favor  with  which  he 
was  regarded  by  the  persons  in  his  own  sphere  of 
life  ;  at  which  the  Newsboys,  excited  and  delighted  as 
if  it  had  been  the  pit  of  a  theatre  instead  of  a  court 
of  law,  burst  out  into  their  accustomed  hi !  hi  I  hi  I 


GUILTY?  445 

At  this  the  court  was  greatly  scandalized,  and  ordered 
the  house  to  be  cleared. 

Bad  as  this  was  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  it  was  a 
comfort  to  Jack,  who  saw  he  should  be  remembered 
with  affection  by  his  compeers.  All  through  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  court,  two  Nuns,  in  the  black  robes 
of  their  order,  were  observed  seated  at  one  side. 
This  dress  consists  of  a  black  crape,  scuttle-shaped 
bonnet,  projecting  far  over  the  face,  a  loose  long  robe 
of  black  serge,  gathered  at  the  waist  by  a  heavy  black 
cord,  supporting  a  cross  of  ebony.  The  sleeves  are 
long  and  loose,  showing  coarse  white  muslin  beneath. 
These  women  sat  as  motionless  as  mutes,  their  heads 
bent,  and  hands  inserted  each  into  the  opposite  sleeve 
of  the  dress,  so  that  no  conjecture  could  be  made  as 
to  the  amount  of  emotion  beneath  those  sable  vestures. 
As  they  appeared  daily,  and  took  their  accustomed 
place  at  the  same  hour>  people  looked  upon  them  with 
reverence,  and  a  hush  always  passed  over  the  audi 
ence  ;  for  in  spite  of  the  prejudices  of  sect,  the  Sisters 
of  Charity  are  honored  by  persons  of  every  faith. 

In  an  opposite  direction,  sitting  where  she  could 
look  into  the  face  of  the  prisoner,  was  another  form. 
This  was  a  young  girl,  meanly  and  scantily  attired, 
who  shrank  away  from  observation  ;  drawing  her  veil 
and  shawl  tightly  about  her,  and  with  so  firm  a  grasp, 
that  it  was  evident  she  hoped  in  this  way  to  hold 


446  THE    NEWSBOY. 

back  the  wild  pulses  of  her  heart.  She  was  pale  and 
thin,  and  her  eye  wandered  restlessly  from  the  face  of 
Jack  to  those  of  his  judges.  Oh  !  there  was  a  volcano 
of  burning  grief  in  the  bosom  of  poor  Maggie,  which 
would  not  be  put  aside,  strive  how  she  would. 
When  Bob  came  in,  and  sat  down  by  his  friend,  and 
looked  consolingly  at  the  girl,  she  wept  and  wept,  as 
if  her  heart  would  break  ;  but  when  Flashy  Jack  put 
his  thin  fingers  to  his  lips  in  token  of  tenderness,  poor 
Maggie  gasped  for  breath,  and  turned  from  side  to 
side,  lest  her  agony  should  become  audible. 

The  jury  had  agreed  upon  their  verdict,  and  were 
now  about  to  render  it  in.  There  was  a  moment  of 
terrible  silence.  The  whole  area  of  the  room  was 
densely  crowded ;  not  a  Newsboy  was  away  from  the 
premises  upon  this  occasion.  The  prisoner  was  com 
manded  to  rise  and  look  upon  the  jury,  in  the  ordinary 
form  of  law — as  he  arose  calm  and  pale,  Maggie  also 
arose  to  her  feet  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 
All  was  so  deadly  hushed  that  the  beating  of  human 
hearts  became  audible,  and  a  heavy  surging  of  human 
blood  ebbed  and  flowed  throughout  the  vast  assem 
blage  like  the  movements  of  a  mighty  steam-engine 
heard  at  a  distance.  When  the  foreman  pronounced 
the  dread  word, 

"©Wilts," 

there  was  one  moment  of  dead  silence,  and  then  a 


GUILTY?  447 

cry  so  long,  so  loud,  so  heart-rending,  burst  from  one 
agonized  heart,  some  said  two ;  some  affirmed  that  the 
tallest  Nun  shrieked  as  Maggie  did,  but  this  is  uncer 
tain,  for  when  the  poor  girl  fell  in  convulsions  upon 
the  floor  and  was  borne  out,  the  Nun  went  forth,  still 
and  calm  as  she  had  entered. 

At  the  cry  of  Maggie,  Flashy  Jack  grasped  the 
bars  in  front,  and  turned  towards  her,  as  if  he  would 
save  her  from  her  misery  ;  it  was  but  a  moment,  and 
he  heard  his  condemnation  with  no  mark  of  emotion. 
And  so  the  law  had  secured  its  victim. 


LYII. 


I  CANNOT  describe  tlie  last  hours  of  Flashy  Jack. 
To  me  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  move  in  amid  the  fibres 
of  a  human  heart  and  lay  open  all  its  fearful  capacity 
for  suffering.  I  do  not  believe  we  are  made  better  by 
the  stress  and  strain  of  the  sensibilities.  The  teai 
that  to-day  wells  like  a  soft,  pitying  angel  from  the 
heart,  baptizing  a  grief  till  it  becomes  less  a  grief  than 
a  fair,  sweet  grief-child,  made  holy  by  the  distilled 
water  of  the  spirit,  to-morrow  does  not  flow  from  a 
like  cause  ;  but  a  deeper  sorrow,  a  fiercer  agony  of  the 
soul  is  required  to  bring  forth  the  token,  and  so  the 
heart  grows  hard  under  the  process  ;  just  as  those 
fountains,  which  hold  minerals  in  solution,  dropping 
water  as  they  do,  day  by  day,  at  length  find  them 
selves  choked  and  lost  in  the  accumulating  crystal, 
and  only  a  marble  shaft  stands  where  once  had  been  a 
fountain.  A  literature  which  deals  in  wild  extremes 


LAST    HOURS.  449 

of  passion  is  demoralizing  to  a  people ;  but  that  which, 
depicts  the  pure  springs  of  our  humanity,  its  strange 
warp  and  woof  of  good  and  evil,  the  good  always 
lying  like  fair  inwoven  threads  of  silver,  may  be 
made  healthful  and  ennobling. 

It  was  the  night  before  the  execution  ;  and  here  I 
shall  present  three  aspects  of  the  night,  rather  than 
open  all  the  sorrowful  lips  of  the  weary  hearts  that 
shrank  from  the  coming  dawn. 

In  a  small  room,  plain  but  cleanly,  the  door 
locked  and  the  white  curtain  put  aside  so  that  the  full 
moon  poured  into  the  room  with  a  white,  ghastly 
splendor,  lay  a  tall,  thin  woman,  stretched  upon  a 
low,  iron  bedside.  So  rigid  was  her  attitude,  and  so 
deathly  pale  her  cheek,  you  would  have  supposed  life 
had  ceased  to  swell  those  large  blue  veins,  cording  the 
white  brow  and  attenuated  hands,  save  that  the  lips 
parted,  over  the  prominent  teeth,  moved  in  prayer, 
and  the  hands  grasped  a  crucifix.  Long  black  robes 
depended  from  hooks  upon  the  wall,  and  helped  to 
still  further  increase  the  unearthly  aspect  of  the 
room ;  thus  one  might  suppose  the  dead  to  look  in 
their  dim  mausoleums,  and  it  required  little  stretch  of 
the  fancy  to  convert  the  cell  of  the  Nun  into  a  vault 
at  Greenwood. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  through  whose  heart  went  the 
sharp  sword  of  mortal  grief— pity,  pity  1"  Whatever 


450  THE    NEWSBOY. 

the  form,  the  dear  God  knows  when  the  heart  needs 
him,  and  forthwith  a  calm,  aspiring  faith  swelled  the 
heart  of  the  Nun,  and  she  wept,  and  then  sleep,  who 
is  the  sister  of  tears,  came  to  comfort  her. 

In  a  dark,  untidy  room,  damp  with  the  close  air, 
her  head  resting  upon  the  seat  of  a  chair,  and  her 
person  upon  the  floor,  sat  a  pale,  haggard  shape,  with 
out  tears,  or  groans,  or  prayers.  An  aspect  of  black, 
still,  despairing  misery  looked  out  from  the  face. 
The  moon  had  been  rising  higher  and  higher,  and 
now  had  found  the  broken  blind,  and  she  peered  in 
and  looked  upon  the  pale  occupant.  At  this  she  slid 
from  the  chair  and  lay  back  upon  the  floor,  for  the 
light  was  madness  to  her.  Hour  after  hour  she  lay, 
her  neck  thrown  back,  her  tangled  hair  matted  about 
her  head,  and  her  glazed  eyes  staring  into  dim,  va 
cant  space. 

That  speechless  agony  was  more  touching  than 
words.  The  poor,  ignorant  heart  could  feel  its  full 
misery,  but  comprehended  nothing  of  its  great  needs ; 
but  the  good  God  knew  its  wants — softly,  pitying 
spirits  breathed  upon  the  brow  ;  softly,  pitying  spirits 
eased  at  the  heart,  and  sleep  came,  but  oh,  how  terri 
ble  when  she  could  not  close  the  lid  over  the  great, 
staring  eyes,  nor  make  the  tired  nerves  cease  their 
rigid  tension ! 

In  a  small  cell,  stone  upon  every  side,  reclines  a 


LAST    HOUKS.  451 

youth  in  the  full  flush  of  life.  He  is  stretched  upon 
his  rude,  hard  couch;  and  sleep,  which  has  been  every 
where  with  her  ministry,  has  long  since  claimed  him. 
A  Bible  is  upon  the  straw  pillow — it  even  touches  the 
curls  of  the  sleeper.  It  is  open,  and  a  tear  has  fallen 
upon  the  words,  "  Fear  not,  little  flock."  Sleep  finds 
him  weeping  over  the  tender  words  of  the  tender-lov 
ing  Jesus,  and  there  he  lies,  his  young  heart  rising  and 
falling  more  calmly  than,  perhaps,  it  had  ever  before 
done.  The  mystery  was  about  to  be  revealed. 

Softly  slept  the  youth.  Never  in  his  neglected 
childhood  had  he  so  sweetly  slept  as  now ;  lying  there, 
a  babe  in  Christ,  a  stricken  lamb  borne  on  the  bosom 
of  the  Good  Shepherd.  The  moon  came  down  the 
hollow  square,  and  saw  the  unnatural  preparations 
there,  and  then  she  sought  her  way  through  heavy 
casement,  and  iron  bar,  to  see  for  whom  this  frightful 
work  was  to  be ;  and  when  she  found  a  poor  young 
boy,  "more  sinned  against  than  sinning,"  she  stole 
out  again,  lest  he  should  awake  too  soon. 

As  the  morning  dawned,  Bob  sat  down  by  the 
side  of  his"  friend,  and  they  talked  long  and  solemnly, 
as  friends  talk  who  part  upon  a  strange  journey.  It 
must  be  remembered,  that  the  ideas  of  both  were 
greatly  cleared  in  the  course  of  the  last  few  months. 

"  I  Ve  felt  all  along,  Jack,  that  there 's  been  some 
thing  upon  your  mind,  more  than  you's  told  me," 


452  THE    NEWSBOY. 

said  Bob,  holding  the  hand  of  Jack.  "  I  thinks  I 
could  see  you  wished  not  to  get  clear." 

"  That  is  true.  Bob.  I  only  feared  life  when  my 
mind  settled  itself  down  to  see  how  I  stood  with  the 
world." 

"  We 's  ignorant,  Jack,  but  according  to  my 
views,  we  ought  to  wait  till  we  're  called,  and  be 
willing  to  wait." 

"  Well,  Bob,  can  you  think  of  nothing  that  would 
make  you  willing  to  die?" 

"  I  could  die  to  save  you,  Jack — anybody  would 
die  for  a  friend." 

"  In  course,  Bob  ;  or  for  a  mother,  or  a  child." 

"I  cannot  speak  so  strong-like  about  a  mother, 
seein'  as  I  never  had  one ;  but  I  could  die  for  poor 
little  Dady,  I  think." 

Jack  grasped  his  hand,  and  the  tears  gushed  to  his 
eyes.  "  Grod  bless  you  for  that,  Bob.  I  die  more 
than  content." 

Bob  expressed  his  surprise,  and  Jack  went  on  to 
explain. 

"  As  I  have  before  said,  I  have  tried  for  years  to 
forget  that  gypsy  curse,  but  I  could  not  do  so. 
When  I  played  Jack  Sheppard,  it  seemed  always  to 
me  that  it  was  another  step  towards  its  fulfilment. 
Time  passed  away.  I  remembered  that  neither  my 
father,  nor  his  father,  were  guilty.  I  felt,  also,  that 


LAST    HOURS.  453 

there  was  that  within  myself  that  I  could  never  com 
mit  a  crime  worthy  of  death.  Still,  there  was  the 
prophecy,  always  like  a  black  ringer  to  an  invisible 
shape,  pointing  off  into  a  black  future.  I  tried,  by  a 
light,  careless  life,  to  banish  it,  but  it  would  not  be. 
Then,  as  time  ripened  the  character  of  Maggie,  she 
attached  herself  to  me.  In  an  evil  hour  I  told  her 
this  hateful  secret,  thinking  the  girl  would  learn  to 
avoid  me.  But  the  event  proved  otherwise.  A  ter 
rible  foreboding,  a  wild,  tender  pity  became  blent 
with  her  love.  Why,  Bob,  Maggie  and  I,  in  our  im 
perfect  way,  tried  to  pray.  "We  went  everywhere, 
that  we  might  learn ;  but  without  friends,  ignorant, 
uncultivated  as  we  were,  little  could  be  done.  It  is 
a  sad,  bad  story,  Bob— but  how  were  we  to  learn  ? 
How  was  Maggie  to  learn  gentleness,  and  womanly 
feelings  ?  She  conceived  the  idea  that  the  third  one 
of  the  curse  might  be  anticipated.  I  followed  her 
one  dark,  dismal  night — she  had  strangled  Dady,  and 
then  escaped  from  the  spot." 

Bob  arose  to  his  feet,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  Jack,  in  surprise  as  well  as  horror.  Jack 
went  on : 

"  Thank  God,  I  was  in  time  to  save  her  from  that 
terrible  crime ;  but  I  dared  not  confront  Maggie  with 
the  child.  I  waited  and  listened — you  came  by — you 
stopped — then  you  went  on  at  a  full  run.  My  heart 


454  THE    NEWSBOY. 

died  within  me,  and  I  thought  to  take  up  the  precious 
burden,  when  you  returned  and  bore  the  child  away. 
Bob,  I  knelt  down  then,  and  prayed — yes,  Bob,  poor, 
ignorant,  careless  Flashy  Jack  prayed,  from  the  very 
bottom  of  his  heart,  for  blessings  upon  you,  Bob." 

The  two  embraced  each  other  as  they  had  never 
before  done. 

"  You  remember  Maggie  never  liked  you ;  indeed 
she  did  not  like  my  fondness  for  you ;  therefore  she 
was  not  likely  to  meet  the  child  again,  and  when  she 
did  so  it  had  grown  past  remembrance." 

"  I  had  thought  better  of  Maggie,  I  'm  bound  to 
say,"  answered  the  Newsboy.  "  But  then  it  was  all 
out  of  her  love  for  you,  Flashy  Jack,  and  there  was  a 
sort  of  one-sided  virtue  in  the  act,  after  all." 

"  It  may  be,"  answered  the  other.  "  "When  I  re 
turned,  Maggie  was  weeping  wildly ;  indeed  I  found 
she  had  procured  brandy  and  had  become  insane 
from  the  double  cause.  I  took  care  of  her,  Bob.  I 
did  not  scold  nor  ill-treat  her,  though  I  was  less 
tender,  it  may  be,  than  formerly.  After  awhile,  see 
ing  that  Maggie  was  like  to  grow  mad  with  remorse 
and  grief,  and  that  she  would  perhaps  drink  her 
self  to  death,  I  told  her  all,  upon  condition  that  she 
would  take  no  more  intoxicating  drinks.  But  I  never 
told  her  that  you  were  the  one  who  carried  away  the 
child.  Oh,  Bob,  you  ought  to  have  known  how 


LAST    HOURS.  455 

gentle  and  submissive  it  made  poor  Maggie.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  be  dead  to  all  but  me.  She  obeyed 
me  always  to  the  utmost,  and  dreaded  nothing  so 
much  as  a  cold  look  from  me.  She  is  a  good  girl," 
he  added,  breaking  suddenly  off  from  his  narrative. 

"  Yes,  she's  a  good  gal.  "We's  very  ignorant, 
Jack,  as  I  al'ays  say;  but,  accordin'  to  my  lights, 
Maggie 's  a  good  gal,  and  whatever  she  is  or  has  been, 
she  shall  never  lack  a  friend  while  Bob  lives." 

"  And  now,  Bob,  do  you  not  see  I  would  willing 
ly  die  to  shield  even  from  possible  harm  my  poor 
child  ?" 

And  thus  talked  the  two  youths,  discussing  and 
settling,  as  best  they  might,  our  great  moral  problems. 
Talking  and  feeling  as  fathers  rarely  do,  from  the 
motherly  side  of  the  human  heart,  where,  as  behind 
a  soft  down,  wave  to  and  fro  all  the  best  issues  of 
our  humanity. 

I  am  weak-hearted,  I  can  go  no  further  with  my 
poor  friend,  Flashy  Jack,  although  the  brave-hearted 
Newsboy  was  with  him  to  the  last ;  with  him  in  the 
last  hour  of  agony  and  dread,  saw  the  poor  youth 
lift  up  the  white  cap  from  his  head  and  take  a  last 
look  at  the  bright,  beautiful  sun,  which  he  left,  and 
forever,  midway  in  the  heavens. 

"  Comfort  poor  Maggie,"  he  whispered,  and  the 
scene  closed. 


LVIII. 


BOB,  with  all  his  simplicity,  had  still  a  certain 
wisdom  about  him  which  induced  him  to  speak  or 
hold  his  peace  as  circumstances  might  justify.  In 
the  matter  of  Dady  he  made  no  revelations  to  good 
Aunt  Beckey,  who  accepted  the  child  upon  broad 
principles  of  humanity,  notwithstanding  her  doubt 
ful  origin,  when,  had  she  been  able  to  point  out  the 
delinquents  to  whom  she  owed  her  birth,  it  might 
have  been  otherwise.  A  child  without  acknowledged 
parentage  is  one  thing,  a  child  to  whom  you  may 
point  and  say,  it  is  a  "  come-by-chance"  of  Polly  Slo- 
cum's,  or  Susan  JSTewbegin's,  is  another.  In  cases 
like  these,  it  may  truly  be  said, 

"  Where  ignorance  is  bliss  't  is  folly  to  be  wise," 

and  Bob,  without  the  least  knowledge  of  this  hoard 
ed  wisdom  of  the  past  ages,  acted  according  to  its 
dictates. 


EXTREMES    MEET.  457 

Aunt  Beckey  held  poor  Bob's  head  in  her  great 
motherly  lap,  and  listenpd,  with  tears  falling  in  tor 
rents  from  her  eyes,  to  his  account  of  the  last  hours 
of  Flashy  Jack. 

"  And  so  it  is  all  over  with  him !"  she  exclaimed. 
After  awhile,  her  kindly  nature  turned  to  Maggie,  and 
she  asked  of  her. 

"  She  lays  upon  the  floor  and  pulls  the  hair  out  of 
her  head,  not  in  great  heaps,  but  hair  by  hair,  moth 
er,  slow-like,  first  one  and  then  another,  as  if  it  eased 
her.  Oh,  ma'am,  there's  a  great  gap  left  where 
Flashy  Jack  and  Maggie  was.  They  was  something 
fine  and  handsome  for  us  to  look  at." 

"  It 's  all  beyond  my  comprehension,  Bob.  And 
Maggie  would  n't  be  married  after  all,  when  you  urged 
it  upon  her?  poor  thing.  Goodness  gracious!  Bob, 
human  nater  is  hard  to  be  understood." 

"  Human  nater,  ma'am,  seems  plain  and  easy  to 
me.  I  has  lights  there,  but  the  doin's  out  o'  human 
nater  is  the  mystery." 

"  Sartain,  sartain,  Bob.  But  it 's  human  nater  to 
want  to  be  respectable  and  above-board  in  the  world." 

"  I  understands  bein'  above-board,  ma'am,  but 
to  be  respectable  costs  too  much  money  for  poor 
bodies  like  Jack,  and  Maggie,  and  me,  ma'am." 

"  Goodness  gracious  I  Bob,  if  Maggie  'd  been  mar 
ried  I  would  not  have  cared  in  the  least ;  but  its  en- 

20 


458  THE    NEWSBOY. 

couraging  vice,  it  is,  it  is  subverting  the  good  of 
society  to  uphold  such  doings." 

"I'm  bound  to  think  you're  right,  ma'am.  My 
lights  don't  go  so  far." 

"  I'll  go  and  see  her,"  said  Aunt  Beckey,  rising  to 
her  feet,  as  if  after  a  long  conflict  she  had  suddenly 
come  to  a  determination. 

Bob  hesitated.  "  May  be,  ma'am,  you  would  feel 
bound  to  speak  warning-like  to  poor  Maggie." 

"Goodness  gracious!  do  you  doubt  it?  I  shall 
speak  in  season  and  out  of  season,  in  the  hope  of 
snatching  her  as  a  brand  from  the  burning." 

"I'm  bound  to  say,  poor  Maggie 's  too  far  gone 
for  that,  ma'am  ;  she 's  a  poor,  broken-hearted  critter, 
ma'am." 

The  tears  were  again  in  Aunt  Beckey's  eyes ;  and 
she  went  out  to  return  almost  immediately,  equipped 
for  her  errand  of  mercy. 

It  was  already  night  when  the  two  ascended  the 
old  worn  stairs,  to  the  room  of  Maggie.  The  full 
moon  cast  great  shadows  along  the  streets,  over  which 
people  passed,  looking  sharply  into  each  others'  faces, 
as  they  do  in  cities  when  the  moon  lights  up  the 
thoroughfares,  instead  of  the  street-lamps.  The  lamp 
lighter  had  a  holiday  time  now,  and  you  missed  his 
alert  step,  and  the  ring  of  his  little  ladder,  as  the  iron 
prongs  touched  the  pavement  before  it  leaned  against 


EXTREMES    MEET.  459 

the  post,  up  winch  he  went  and  came,  leaving  a  flash 
of  light  behind  him.  Suddenly  came  the  light,  and 
revealed  your  face  and  that  of  the  friend  who  talked 
with  you,  under  the  shadow  of  the  curtain.  It  may 
be,  the  hand  clasped  in  yours  is  suddenly  withdrawn 
at  the  coming  of  the  lamp-lighter ! 

To-night  the  functionary  is  not  abroad.  On  the 
way  down  Anthony  street,  which  hollows  away  to 
wards  the  Five  Points,  showing  its  poor,  prematurely- 
decaying  buildings,  Aunt  Beckey  declaimed  against 
the  idlers  who  loitered  about ;  asking  with  her  em 
phatic,  "  Groodness  gracious !  why  are  n't  they  at 
home  where  decent  people  ought  to  be?  Why  aren't 
all  them  children  put  to  bed,  instead  of  being  up,  and 
out  this  time  o'  night  ?" 

Bob  made  no  reply ;  and  it  was  just  as  well,  for 
it  would  have  distressed  the  good  creature  to  learn 
the  facts  of  the  case.  Why  should  her  kindly  heart 
be  wrung  with  the  knowledge  that  ten  thousand 
children  have  not  where  to  lay  their  heads  in  this 
great  city  of  New  York?  Ten  thousand  children, 
amid  a  Christian  community,  have  neither  home  nor 
protectors,  neither  parent  nor  guide ;  but  go  up  and 
down  its  thoroughfares,  with  their  poor,  aohing  heads, 
and  weary  feet,  and  growing  intellects,  and  none  to 
lead  them  by  the  hand,  as  only  mothers  lead — none 
to  comfort,  as  only  mothers  comfort — none  to  en* 


460  THE    NEWSBOY. 

lighten,  as  only  mothers  can  enlighten,  the  mind  of 
infancy.  You  may  see  them  about  the  markets,  and 
bakeries,  and  docks,  all  along  areas,  anywhere  that 
may  shelter  a  forlorn  human  head,  sleeping  in  the 
moonshine,  cared  for  by  Him  who  "careth  for  the 
young  ravens  when  they  cry." 

Around  the  steps  were  g-roups  of  boys,  half-naked, 
looking  hushed  and  horror-stricken.  In  the  shadow 
of  the  door- way  were  others ;  all  along  the  stairs  they 
stept  stealthily  to  one  side,  to  let  Bob  and  his  com 
panion  pass. 

"  Goodness  gracious  I"  more  than  once  escaped  the 
lips  of  Aunt  Beckey,  as  she  observed  so  many  evi 
dences  of  disorder.  Upon  entering  the  room,  the 
odor  was  damp  and  cheerless ;  for  the  sun  had  been 
long  excluded  from  its  precincts,  while  Maggie's  tears 
had  fallen  there  all  the  time.  The  blinds  were,  as 
usual,  all  closed  in.  Sister  Agnace  had  placed  a 
taper  upon  the  table,  and  even  given  an  air  of  tidiness 
to  the  apartment. 

Aunt  Beckey  looked  about  her  in  silence ;  all  her 
long  homilies  passed  out  of  mind  at  the  sight  of  so 
much  suffering.  The  strange  Nun,  whom  it  is  need 
less  to  say^was  the  Juliet  of  our  story,  sat  at  one  side, 
her  head  resting  against  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  the 
light  revealed  a  face  utterly  colorless. 

"Purge   me  with   hyssop,  and  I  shall  be  clean. 


EXTREMES    MEET.  461 

Search  me,  and  try  me,  that  no  evil  remain.  Lover 
and  child!  Pity,  pity  me  most  miserable— pity — 
pity" —  she  continued  to  repeat,  with  half-closed  eyes, 
and  lips  white  as  ashes. 

At  the  feet  of  Maggie  sat  good  Sister  Agnace, 
holding  her  cold  hands  in  both  of  hers,  and  her  lips 
uttering  words  of  comfort,  in  her  low,  silvery  voice. 
The  touch  of  the  poor,  broken-hearted  Magdalen  was 
no  contamination  to  the  pure,  saint-like  Nun,  who 
had  sought,  but  in  vain,  to  lift  the  thoughts  of  the 
poor  girl  to  something  beyond  her  subject  of  agony. 

Aunt  Beckey  turned  her  eyes  from  side  to  side, 
and  then  she  went  to  the  strange  Nun,  and  took  her 
hand  from  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  laid  it  against 
her  own  warm-beating  heart,  and  held  it  there  with 
her  large,  kind  hand. 

"  Touch  me  not,  for  I  am  a  sinner,"  gasped  the 
Nun. 

""We  are  all  sinners — all  need  forgiveness,"  an 
swered  Aunt  Beckey,  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

-—j* 

"  I  will  pray  the  Father,  and  he  will  send  the 
comforter,"  responded  Sister  Agnace ;  and  Aunt 
Beckey,  with  all  her  aversion  to  Popery,  found  her 
self  here,  in  this  sad  hour,  responding  "Amen"  to  the 
pious  and  ready  utterance  of  the  Sister. 

There  is  the  sound  of  feet  in  the  street  below — a 


462  THE   NEWSBOY. 

steady,  gathering  sound,  as  of  a  silent  multitude,  but 
the  inmates  of  the  room  hear  it  not ;  there  is  a  slow 
rumble  of  heavy  wheels — slowly,  slowly  it  moves 
over  the  heavy  pavement;  slowly,  slowly  it  nears, 
and  now  it  stops  beneath  the  window.  A  man  ap 
pears,  and  beckons  at  the  door  of  the  apartment. 
The  Nun,  with  a  heavy  groan,  rises  to  her  feet. 

"  Once  before,  at  midnight — once  before,  and  now 
for  the  last  time ;  and  then  tears,  and  prayers,  and 
penitence — and  death " —  she  uttered,  as  leaning 
heavily  upon  the  arm  of  Aunt  Beckey,  she  descended 
and  took  her  seat  in  a  carriage  at  the  door. 

"  You  must  be  still,  Maggie,"  whispered  Bob,  as 
sisting,  at  the  same  time,  Sister  Agnace  in  raising  her 
to  her  feet.  Maggie  had  not  before  known  of  his 
presence,  and  she  put  her  arm  over  his  shoulder  in  a 
heavy,  woe-begone  manner,  saying, 

"  Oh,  Bob,  they  have  stopped  the  bravest  heart 
that  ever  beat — they  have  stopped  the  lovingest  heart 
that  ever  loved." 

"  I  know  it,  Maggie ;  but  we  '11  bear  it,  we  will." 

"  Ah,  Bob,  the  sharp  pain  is  here,  here — but  I 
told  Jack  I  'd  bear  it.  I  '11  mind  him,  Bob,  I  will,  to 
the  last." 

She  was  more  self-possessed  than  it  was  feared  she 
would  be,  and  even  when  she  came  in  sight  of  the 
black  hearse,  and  the  multitude  of  Newsboys  throng- 


EXTREMES    MEET.  463 

ing  the  entire  street,  but  all  deeply  hushed,  she  only 
struggled  forward  and  threw  up  her  arms  with  one 
gasp  of  agony,  and  then  entered  the  carriage  and 
laid  her  head  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  strange  Nun. 
They  had  never  approached  each  other  in  this  way 
till  now,  when  all  distinctions  were  lost  in  the  great 
sense  of  a  common  sorrow.  Maggie  saw  the  News 
boys  ;  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  only  the  Newsboys 
would  follow  poor  Jack  to  such  a  place ;  but  she  did 
not  see  how  they  looked  their  pity  upon  her,  nor  did 
she  see  how  they  touched  her  garments  reverently, 
and  stood  there  in  the  moonlight,  every  head  uncov 
ered,  and  every  heart  full  of  sorrow  for  the  fate  of 
one  of  their  number. 

Slowly  the  black  hearse  rumbled  over  the  pave 
ments,  the  one  carriage  behind  it,  bearing  that  fiery 
Italian  heart,  all  hushed — all  its  ambition,  all  its 
dreams  of  life  and  fame  crushed  out,  nothing  left  but 
an  aching,  weary  void,  an  aching,  weary  heart,  sub 
dued  to  fastings  and  prayers ;  bearing  also  the  pas 
sionate,  burning  heart  of  the  Magdalen,  which  had 
grown  up  amid  the  fierce  trials  of  the  great  city,  in 
ignorance  and  desertion,  in  blindness  and  despair; 
I  bearing  also  the  triad  of  pure  hearts,  the  representa 
tive  of  Eome,  the  representative  of  Calvin,  the  repre 
sentative  of  Vagrancy.  Surely  God  is  our  keeper. 
Slowly  the  wheels  moved  onward,  and  two  by 


464  THE    NEWSBOY. 

two  the  Newsboys  followed  in  procession,  out  on  the 
way  to  Fordham,  where  is  a  cluster  of  white  stones,  a 
small  city  of  the  dead,  where  every  grave,  however 
humble,  bears  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

When  Juliet  raised  the  sombre  stone  cross  over  the 
ashes  of  her  dead  so  many  years  before,  this  spot  was^ 
a  wilderness ;  now  population  had  pressed  upon  it,  but 
still  it  looked  more  like  a  cluster  of  trees  and  shrubs 
than  a  place  of  burial,  for  the  cross  which  she  then 
planted  was  now  invisible,  showing  nothing  but  the 
form  in  green  ivy,  just  as  in  her  own  heart  the  bright 
hopes  of  the  eternal  had  overshadowed  worldly  am 
bition,  and  left  her  to  the  better  promptings  of  the 
inner  life.  Soon  there  will  mingle  the  ashes  of  the 
four,  and  then  nature  will  silently  cover  the  marble 
with  the  velvet  touches  of  time,  just  as  she  will  ease 
the  heart  to  which  all  is  dead  but  grief. 

Flashy  Jack  had  implored  as  a  last  boon  from  the 
strange  Nun,  that  some  time  Maggie  should  be  laid 
by  his  side,  and  here  we  may  as  well  state  that  it 
was  not  long  before  this  was  done  ;  not  long  before 
the  strange  Nun  and  Maggie  mingled  their  ashes  by 
the  side  of  those  whom  they  had  so  devotedly  loved 
in  life.  Stranger  still,  it  may  seem,  good  Aunt  Beckey 
did  not  cease  her  ministry  till  all  was  over  with  poor 
Maggie,  and  she  departed  to  "  that  bourn  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 


LIX. 

fttiu. 


cannot  afford  space  to  follow  the  personages 
of  our  story  through  the  next  five  or  six  years,  a 
period  long  enough  to  produce  great  changes  in  us 
all.  Many  a  hope  and  many  a  love  dies  out  in  a 
shorter  time  —  let  them  pass  —  the  fruition  of  the  fu 
ture  is  before  us,  and  we  can  afford  to  bury  our 
dead, 

The  poet,  the  preacher,  the  philosopher,  conver 
sant  with  the  inner  experience  of  our  humanity,  too 
often  grow  weary  of  the  conflict  of  life  and  sink  down 
by  the  wayside.  Not  so  with  the  merchant.  His 
every-day  experience  is  broad  and  commanding  ;  he 
is  compelled  by  the  force  of  moral  obligation  to  go 
out  of  himself  ;  hundreds  and  thousands  look  to  him 
for  guidance  and  occupation  ;  hundreds  and  thousands 
in  cities  where  are  his  piled-up  warehouses,  in  the 
forests,  where  the  stout  lumberman  swings  sturdily 
the  axe,  felling  timbers  for  his  ships,  on  the  high  seas, 


466  THE    NEWSBOY. 

where  his  freighted  barques  bear  a  little  empire  with 
in  ;  about  the  docks,  where  the  active  laborer  toils  day 
and  night  disposing  of  his  cargoes ;  everywhere^  in  all 
parts  of  the  world,  hundreds  and  thousands  look  to 
his  integrity  of  life  for  the  means  of  supporting  theirs, 
and  thus,  though  his  heart  may  ache  with  bitter  pangs, 
he  may  not  yield,  nor  venture  upon  a  little  rest,  a 
brief  easing  of  the  heart,  a  short  respite  of  the  brain. 
No,  no,  the  merchant  of  all  others  must  be  girded  to 
his  task,  and  if  he  die,  die  gallantly  with  harness 
on  his  back. 

Thus  it  was  with  Mr.  Pinsmoor.  Those  who  noted 
the  rich,  handsome  merchant,  upon  whom  had  fallen 
such  heavy  grief,  saw  no  dimunition  of  activity,  no 
abatement  of  his  wonderful  forecast,  no  failure  in  en 
terprise  or  zeal.  To  stop  would  be  the  wreck  of 
others,  not  himself  merely,  and  therefore  his  life  and 
schemes  flowed  on  in  their  accustomed  channel. 
Those  who  watched  him  more  narrowly,  however, 
saw  the  white  thread  gather  more  and  more  upon  his 
brow,  and  his  smile  came  less  often,  and  had  lost  all 
the  brightness  of  other  days.  He  grew  more  munifi 
cent  also ;  never  a  beggar  asked  in  vain,  never  a  plan 
to  relieve  suffering  was  presented  to  him  without  a 
liberal  return ;  and  when  the  Sabbath  came  he  never 
failed  of  church  service,  though  the  occupants  of  his 
pew  were  quite  other  than  those  of  happier  days. 


AUNT    BEG  KEY'S    LETTER.          467 

Upon  tlie  subject  of  church-going,  -Aunt  Beckey 
had  been  greatly  tried,  and  not  till  she  had  consulted, 
at  some  length,  the  Kev.  Mr.  Ichabod  Longwind,  was 
she  fully  at  rest  in  her  mind. 

"Pray  for  me,  my  dear  brother  in  the  Lord,"  she 
wrote,  "for,  verily,  I  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
the  Philistines,  at  least  for  awhile.  It  is  in  this  wise  : 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to  go  to  the  Episcopal 
church,  preferring,  of  course,  the  simple  milk  of  the 
word,  without  the  intervention  of  men's  devices  ;  but 
when  I  saw  Cousin  George  going  like  a  lone  sheep  to 
the  house  of  God,  my  heart  relented,  and  I  went  with 
him,  I  feel,  dear  brother,  as  if  the  everlasting 
foundations  were  giving  way  under  me,  for  in  the 
way  of  duty  I  have  had  many  trials.  I  went  to  see 
a  poor  young  woman,  fallen  into  the  snares  of  the 
adversary,  and  whose  state,  I  must  own,  went  to  my 
heart ;  and  I  stayed  with  her,  and  did  not  fail  to  speak 
the  seasonable  word,  though  I  greatly  fear  to  little  pur 
pose,  for  she  died  more  deploring  the  cause  of  her  sin, 
than  the  sin  itself.  But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
I  was  greatly  helped,  in  my  duty  to  the  girl,  by  a  Sis 
ter  of  Charity,  (who  are  not  exactly  Nuns,  but  some 
thing  like  it,)  and  I  must  own.  greatly  as  I  abhor  Eo- 
manism,  and  much  as  I  strove  to  escape  entanglement, 
such  is  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  that  I  found 
my  heart  greatly  drawn  out  towards  the  woman. 


468  THE    NEWSBOY. 

But  this  is  all  over  with  the  occasion,  I  do  assure  you, 
my  brother,  so  I  would  not  have  you  waste  prayers 
to  that  effect,  seeing  as  I  have  already  washed  my 
hands  of  the  offence. 

"I  look  upon  Episcopacy  as  little  better  than 
Eomanisnij  but  Cousin  George  is  wedded  to  his  idols, 
and  rather  than  see  him  l  a  lone,  a  banished  man,'  as 
we  used  to  sing  in  the  great  weaving-room,  when 
Lydia  Keene  and  I  was  gals  together,  before  she 
threw  herself  away  upon  Sam  Dolittle — well,  as  I 
was  going  to  say,  rather  than  see  him  go  alone  to  the 
house  of  God,  I  went  with  him,  feeling  all  the  time 
that  I  was  countenancing  abominations.  Help  me  in 
these  things,  oh,  my  brother;  and  beware,  also,  that 
you  do  not  fall  into  the  devices  of  the  enemy,  as  I 
have  before  warned  you  in  the  case  of  that  Jezebel, 
who  looketh  out  of  her  windows  as  you  pass  by. 
Eemernber  thus  did  the  painted  woman  of  old,  of 
whom  we  are  told  the  dogs  licked  her  blood ;  remem 
ber  I  have  before  warned  you.  Of  course  I  mean 

that  subtle  widow  Jemima  .  I  will  not  soil 

my  pen  by  writing  her  name  in  full. 

"  I  have  wrote  these  things  in  confidence,  by  way 
of  showing  how  the  Lord  has  dealt  with  me  in  this 
city,  the  wickedness  whereof  is  greater  than  was  that  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  I  have  before  spoken  to  you 
about  Bob,  a  Newsboy,  taken  by  my  Cousin  George 


AUNT    BEG  KEY'S   LETTER.          469 

to  bring  up,  except  that  lie  is  pretty  well  up  already, 
being  nigh  upon  twenty  or  more,  at  this  time  of 
writing.  I  had  great  hopes  of  Bob,  but  he 's  so 
opinionated  that,  were  it  not  for  faith,  I  should  give  up 
entirely.  Howsomever,  he  scares  me  sometimes  with 
his  views,  and  a  sort  of  savage  virtue  about  him,  that 
makes  me  think  of  Obadiah  Liscom,  who  was  carried 
off  by  the  Injins  in  the  old  French  war.  Bob  might 
be  thought  to  be  rich  now,  but  he  sticks  to  the  raga 
muffins  that  he  lived  with  in  early  lifey  as  if  nothing 
in  the  born  world  was  like  them ;  which  goes  to  prove, 
that  what 's  bred  in  the  bone,  and-so-forth. 

"Then  we  have  another  one  in  the  family,  and 
Cousin  George  calls  her  his  protegee — I  blush  to  write 
it.  Pardon  the  blushing  cheek  of  a  virgin,  dear 
brother,  when  I  say — no,  I  cannot  write  it.  Imagine 
the  worst — savagely  the  worst.  "Well,  this  unfor 
tunate  child  is  the  most  beautiful  creature  eyes  were 
ever  laid  on ;  which  goes  to  make  good  the  old  adage, 
1  wit  and  beauty' — spare  the  remainder  in  consideration 
of  my  burning  blushes.  I  have  great  hopes  that  this 
child,  Dady,  (I  intend  to  try  to  have  her  christened 
Charity,  or  some  other  Christian  name,)  will  turn  out  a 
devoted  missionary  of  the  cross.  She  is  now,  I  should 
judge,  (it 's  a  thousand  pities  about  her,)  about  six 
years  old,  and  can  already  read  any  book  put  into  her 
hands.  She  sings  like  a  perfect  bob-a-lincon,  and  I 


470  THE   NEWSBOY. 

should  say  she  was  a  born  Samuel  of  the  female  gen 
der,  did  n't  she  cry  and  laugh,  sing  and  dance,  and 
pray,  pray  like  a  little  saint,  all  in  one  breath;  and 
then  wind  up  with  calling  me  Aunt  Beckey,  dear 
Aunt  Beckey.  She 's  amazingly  large  and  healthy.  I 
told  you  before,  Bob  picked  her  out  of  the  gutter, 
poor  thing ;  and  the  way  that  Newsboy  loves  her,  and 
takes  care  of  her,  and  glories  in  her  knowingness,  is 
enough  to  shame  decent  respectable  parents,  who  let 
their  children  go  to  ruin,  and  that  after  they  have 
been  christened  according  to  church  regulations.  I 
wish  you  would  preach  a  sermon  especially  on  the 
short-comings  of  fathers  and  mothers;  but  don't  let 
this  get  wind  about  my  cousin  having  this  foundling 
in  the  house,  as  I  regard  the  example  of  the  thing 
bad. 

"  I  must  draw  to  a  close,  for  Bob  is  about  to  go 
out  to  the  Indies  on  business  for  my  cousin.  Oh  the 
change  produced  in  that  boy  1  From  being  little  short 
of  a  heathen,  he  is  now,  by  the  Lord's  help  and  that 
of  Cousin  George,  enabled  to  read  and  write  and 
speak  languages,  and  goes  dressed  like  a  gentleman. 
He  keeps  a  pair  of  old  shoes,  and  a  pair  of  trousers, 
and  a  coat,  which  you'd  be  ashamed  to  sell  to  the 
rag-man,  hung  up  in  his  room,  and  he  says  it  reminds 
him  of  his  early  life,  which  he  never  means  to  forget ; 


AUNT    BECKEY'S    LETTER.          471 

and  for  all  lie 's  so  well  to  look  now,  and  knows  so 
much,  he 's  no  more  pride  than  an  old  shoe. 

"  More  than  all  this,  he  even  talks  to  my  Cousin 
George  jest  the  same  as  if  he  'd  been  brought  up  in 
the  best  style  in  the  world,  and  not  come  up  as  he 
did  any  way.  But  the  only  fault  of  Bob,  as  I  said 
before,  is  in  his  being  so  terribly  opinionated.  I  have 
writ  thus  fully  because  when  my  pen  once  comes  to 
the  paper  I  cannot  well  stop  it,  and  because  I  want  to 
let  you  know  how  we  come  on  here,  and  I  want  to 
learn  the  same  in  return, 

"  Your  sister  in  the  Lord,        BECKEY." 

In  justice  to  Aunt  Beckey,  whose  letters  close 
here,  I  having  found  it  impossible  to  secure  the  for 
mer  part  of  the  correspondence,  I  must  say  she  never 
after  wrote  to  the  Kev.  Mr.  Ichabod  Longwind,  for 
hardly  had  the  above  been  consigned  to  the  mercies 
of  the  post-office  department,  when  a  newspaper 
reached  her  in  which,  around  the  record  of  marriages, 
was  the  black  mark  of  a  pen.  The  good  spinster 
read  with  a  palpitating  heart  that  the  Eev.  Ichabod 
Longwind  and  widow  Jemima,  whose  name  she  would 
never  write  out  in  full,  had  entered  the  holy  precincts 
of  matrimony.  She  was  heard  shortly  after  singing, 
in  a  voice  slightly  changed  in  its  treble, 

"  Hark,  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  sound,"  &c., 


472  THE    NEWSBOY. 

from  whence  a  suspicious  individual  might  imagine 
some  maiden  hope  had  been  suddenly  nipped  in  the 
bud.  It  was  evident  the  good  spinster  in  future 
would  solve  her  own  moral  or  religious  problems 
without  aid  from  the  Eev.  Ichabod  Longwind. 


LX. 


BOB  is  now  twenty  -two  or  three,  a  wise  old  man 
in  one  sense,  in  another  a  mere  child.  He  could 
never  be  brought  to  look  upon  life  in  accordance  with 
the  policies  of  worldly  wisdom.  To  him  suffering 
was  the  same,  whether  it  looked  out  touchingly  from 
the  face  of  beauty,  or  revoltingly  from  that  of  squalid 
poverty.  It  was  in  each  but  a  human  heart  indicating 
its  need  of  the  comforter,  and  his  great,  pure  soul 
responded  at  once. 

"  I  thought  I  should  learn  of  books,"  he  was 
often  heard  to  say,  "  but  I  do  not  find  what  I  want  in 
many  of  them  ;  and  so  I  look  about,  and  learn  of  na 
ture,  for  I  do  not  care  to  make  my  mind  like  a  lum 
ber-yard,  piled  up  with  what  may  be  good  for  others, 
and  yet  possess  little  value  to  me." 

One  thing  was  noticeable  in  him  ;  the  character  of 
Jesus,  "  who  went  about  doing  good,"  seemed  to  pos 
sess  an  indescribable  charm  to  the  Newsboy.  This  he 


474  THE    NEWSBOY. 

was  never  weary  of  studying,  and  he  was  heard  to 
say  often,  "  I  find  there  nothing  to  blame,  nothing  to 
blame."  He  did  not  forsake  his  old  haunts,  and  his 
old  companions ;  on  the  contrary,  the  best  movements 
in  their  behalf  originated  with  Bob.  He  was  now 
tall,  and,  if  not  handsome,  very  striking  in  appearance. 
Charles  Gardner  and  Bob  might  often  be  seen  togeth 
er.  Charles  ha'd  entered  upon  the  practice  of  the  law, 
and  was  a  fresh,  joyous  and  manly -looking  youth. 
Though  the  memory  of  Imogen  had  never  been  ob 
literated,  he  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  the 
charms  of  others  ;  on  the  contrary,  few  were  the 
bright  eyes  that  did  not  grow  brighter  at  the  approach 
of  the  handsome,  fine-spirited  young  man,  who,  it 
must  be  confessed,  had  a  world  of  pleasing  nothings 
to  utter,  never  lost,  however,  upon  the  heart  of 
beauty. 

Bob  now  wrote  his  name  Robert  Seaborn,  though 
his  old  friends  called  him  Bob  as  in  the  olden  time. 
Mr.  Dinsmoor  would  have  had  him  adopt  his  own 
name,  and  Aunt  Beckey's  heart  was  set  upon  his 
taking  hers,  of  Higginbottom,  but  Bob  could  not 
bring  himself  to  take  either. 

"  I  am  but  a  wilding  stock — a  new  sapling  with 
an  unknown  origin.  I  will  be  the  first  of  my  family, 
it  may  be  the  last.  It  does  n't  seem  man-like  to  me 
to  step  into  the  shoes  of  others,  and  those  silvered 


A  VOYAGE.  475 

ones,"  and  so  Bob,  though  the  friend  and  companion 
of  the  rich  merchant,  preserved  his  identity. 

Bob,  if  not  so  attractive  or  handsome  as  Charles 
Gardner,  certainly  won  to  himself  an  -uncommon  de 
gree  of  interest.  He  was  tall,  and  though  thin  and 
pale,  there  was  so  much  of  candor  and  manly  dignity 
about  him  that  he  at  once  riveted  attention.  His 
brow  was  high  and  white,  surmounted  also  by  hair  of 
a  rich,  wavy  brown.  His  eyes  had  lost  their  former 
anxious  expression,  but  in  the  place  there  was  a  soft 
melancholy  which  extended  itself  to  the  whole  face. 
He  was  grave,  for  his  experience  had  been  such  that 
depressing  memories  were  often  busy  at  his  brain. 
There  were  Sam  and  Mary  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  and 
poor  Flashy  Jack  and  Maggie,  with  their  wild,  sad 
life ;  then  there  was  little  Minnie,  always  with  her 
hand  upon  the  heart  of  her  humble  but  noble  friend  ; 
and  all  these  lived  warmly  in  the  memory  of  the 
Newsboy. 

It  may  be,  also,  that  the  lost  childhood  of  the 
youth,  the  lost  boyhood  of  the  youth,  who  had  never 
known  the  bird-like  mirth  of  the  one,  nor  the  exalting 
joy  of  the  other,  looked  out  at  times  from  his  pale 
face,  as  if  they  mourned  the  loss.  But  to  me  the 
grave  smile  of  the*  Newsboy,  coming  slowly  over  his 
clear,  calm  features,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  gleaming 
and  brightening  up  some  sylvan  lake,  was  the  most 


476  THE    NEWSBOY. 

beautiful  in  the  world.  It  came  up  so  clear,  so  child 
like  pure,  as  if  never  an  unholy,  or  bitter,  or  envious 
spot  had  marred  the  tranquil  depths  of  his  great  na 
ture,  that  I  watched  its  coming,  and  watched  its  fad 
ing,  with  an  interest  unknown  to  any  other. 

He  was  now  the  confidential  clerk,  some  said 
partner  of  Mr.  Dinsmoor ;  and  if  Bob's  nature  could 
have  harbored  a  jealousy,  it  would  have  been  in  the 
matter  of  Dady,  who  had  become  so  great  a  pet  with 
the  merchant.  Here  was  a  name,  also,  that  Bob 
would  never  allow  to  be  changed.  It  should  be 
Dady  Seaborn,  nothing  else.  Her  parentage  was  a 
secret  locked  in  his  own  heart,  a  secret  which  rather 
augmented  than  diminished  his  love  for  the  beautiful 
child ;  but  he  was  well  aware  this  would  be  otherwise 
to  other  minds. 

"I'm  bound  to  acknowledge,"  he  would  say,  re 
lapsing  into  his  old  style  of  speaking,  which  will 
never  leave  him,  "  I  'm  bound  to  acknowledge,  this  is 
above-board  and  handsome  in  you,  Mr.  Dinsmoor,  to 
wish  Dady  and  me  to  bear  your  name ;  but  nater  is 
nater,  and  how  that  of  Dady  may  come  out,  I  can  by 
no  manner  of  means  calculate.  The  learning  will  do 
much,  but  not  all.  Let  her  be  only  Dady  Seaborn. 
Cause  why  ?  if  bad  blood  should  get  uppermost,  no 
body  will  be  disgraced  but  Bob,  who  loves  her  like 
a  father,  I  'm  bound  to  say ;  and  when  worst  comes  to 


A  VOYAGE.  477 

worst,  would  always  lay  her  head  upon  his  heart, 
where  Minnie's  hand  is.  I  could  n't  be  made  ashamed 
for  her,  only  pitiful." 

"Bob,  my  noble  boy,"  answered  the  merchant, 
"  you  make  me  ashamed  of  my  weaknesses.  I  am  re 
buked  before  you." 

"  Now,  there,  then  you  are  to  blame,"  replied  the 
Newsboy,  extending  his  hand  cordially.  "'Cause 
why?  you've  been  unfortunately  born  to  wealth 
and  station ;  you  have  learning,  and  a  high  place  in 
the  world — partly  made,  partly  made  for  you;  and 
I  'm  bound  to  say,  I  think  these  things  a  misfortune, 
as  it  were,  and  hinderance  to  the  manhood  in  us  ;  and 
of  course  you  cannot  know  the  human  heart,  nor 
your  own  strength  so  well.  I  take  it  Jesus  was  the 
more  what  he  was  for  having  not  the  where  to  lay  his 
head,  and  so  he  had  the  more  pity,  the  larger  heart. 
A  man,  Sir,  should  be  afraid  of  help — afraid  of  help, 
Sir.  It  is  a  hinderance  to  him.  Let  him  lift  the  log 
to-day  if  he  can — if  not  to-day  to-morrow  then,  but 
let  him  not  take  help." 

And  where  was  Imogen?  Had  she  passed  from 
the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  her  ?  Not  that ;  but 
time  had  softened  the  sense  of  bereavement,  and  she 
had  become  a  memory,  rather  than  a  hope  in  the 
family,  to  all  but  the  Newsboy.  He  alone  said, 
"  when  Imogen  comes — when  Silver- tongue  returns ;" 


478  THE    NEWSBOY. 

others  reckoned  from  "the  time  of  Imogen's  loss." 
Aunt  Beckey  scrupulously  carried  out  the  plan  of 
Fannie,  to  keep  the  room  always  ready.  No  one  had 
pressed  the  downy  pillow,  or  taken  the  little  robes 
from  the  wall.  All  was  as  she  had  left  it.  It  was 
true  the  child,  if  living,  must  be  a  woman  now,  but 
that  did  not  matter  to  the  heart  of  the  sorrowing 
father,  who  saw  her  always  only  as  a  child ;  saw  her 
always  in  her  short  frocks,  with  the  sun  upon  her 
golden  curls,  just  as  she  bounded  to  his  arms,  and 
encircled  his  and  Fannie's  neck  the  morning  of  her 
disappearance. 

Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  been  for  some  time  determined 
to  send  an  agent  to  Cuba,  in  aid  of  his  commercial 
relations  there,  which  had  induced  our  Newsboy  to 
study  much  the  history  and  character  of  this  most 
beautiful  gem  of  the  tropics ;  and,  after  long  delibera 
tion  on  his  part,  he  one  day  presented  himself  for  the 
situation. 

"  Let  me  go  and  try  what  I  can  do  for  you  there, 
Sir,"  he  said.  "  Something  prompts  me  strongly  to 
go,  and  when  that  is  the  case,  I  must  obey."  Bob 
had  other  and  deeper  intimations  which  he  didn't 
care  to  explain ;  but  so  strongly  did  he  desire  to  go, 
and  so  urgently  plead,  that  at  length  Mr.  Dinsmoor 
gave  his  consent. 

"  Go,  my  son,"  he  said,  "  but  in  parting  with  you 


A  VOYAGE.  479 

I  lose  more  than  you  will  believe.    You  are  very  dear 
to  me." 

Bob  was  affected.  "  Human  nater  is  a  great  thing, 
I  'm  bound  to  believe,  Sir,  and  you  have  it,  Sir,  in 
spite  of  your  wealth,"  he  replied. 

Aunt  Beckey  appeared  in  all  her  glory  in  prepar 
ing  the  trunks  of  the  Newsboy.  A  large  number  of 
yarn  stockings,  which  poked  a  pillow-case  out  all 
over  in  bunches,  might  have  looked  apocryphal  in 
utility  to  an  observer,  but  Aunt  Beckey 's  heart  was 
set  on  seeing  them  go ;  for  it  had  been  her  delight, 
for  many  months,  to  knit  them  with  her  own  hands. 
Then  there  was  a  large  junk  bottle,  filled  with  pul 
verized  charcoal,  and  duly  labelled  in  her  largest  and 
roundest  letters,  "  To  be  taken  in  a  little  milk,  a  tea- 
spoonful  every  half  hour,  in  case  of  yellow  fever." 

There  was  also  a  bottle  of  "brandy  in  case  of 
illness,"  labelled  "medicine"  upon  one  side,  and  on 
the  other  "  poison,"  for  Aunt  Beckey  was  an  advo 
cate  of  the  Maine  Liquor  Law. 

Last  of  all  was  a  Bible,  a  nice  Polyglot,  in  the 
which,  out  at  sea,  Bob  found  a  letter  inserted  by  the 
good  spinster,  in  which  her  warm  maternal  heart 
went  forth  in  all  its  fulness  to  her  young  friend. 
There  were  her  blessings  poured  out ;  there  were  her 
prayers,  and  there  were  her  tears,  with  which  the 
paper  was  literally  blistered. 


480  THE    NEWSBOY. 

Before  the  departure  of  Bob,  lie  took  the  child 
Dady  down  to  Staten  Island,  and  talked  with  her 
about  Minnie,  and  then  out  to  Greenwood,  and  let  her 
read  the  names  of  Sam  and  Mary  upon  the  stone,  but 
he  went  by  himself  alone  to  the  grave  of  Flashy  Jack 
and  Maggie.  Theirs  was  a  tale  to  be  buried  in  his 
own  heart,  to  be  wept  over  in  silence. 

At  length  he  is  on  his  voyage,  the  blue  sea 
around  him,  the  blue  sky  above — undique  ccdum,  un 
dique  pontus.  This  was  a  great  change  for  the  News 
boy,  from  the  confined  streets  and  alleys  of  his  child 
hood,  houseless  and  friendless,  to  the  deck  of  a  noble 
ship  as  the  agent  of  a  wealthy  house,  the  compan 
ion  and  friend  of  the  rich  merchant  of  New  York. 
Bob  felt  it  all,  but  in  his  own  way.  He  did  not  see 
that  the  trappings  of  wealth  conferred  any  dignity 
upon  him.  He  was  intrinsically  the  same,  and  if 
anything,  he  respected  himself  less  now  that  less  was 
apparently  required  of  him.  He  had  always  done 
heart  work  and  head  work,  as  well  as  other  work  ;  and 
now  that  wealth  superseded  the  necessity  of  anxious 
toil  for  daily  bread,  he  was  apt  to  undervalue  its 
utility. 

"It  is  work  that  makes  the  man  after  all,"  he 
would  say;   "I  would  work  not  for  jriches,  but  for 

manhood."  ' 
I   *••'--... ..~.._  /xf, 

Every  aspect  of  the  sea,  every  flight  of  sea-birds, 


A  VOYAGE.  481 

every  capture  of  a  fish,  presented  a  new  world  to  the 
Newsboy,  which  he  studied  with  intense  interest. 
But  we  must  leave  him  now  for  other  personages  of 
our  story,  perhaps  too  long  hidden  from  our  readers ; 
for  six  years,  as  I  have  said,  was  working  its  changes 
everywhere. 


21 


LXI. 

Jl  1  0 m *  in  1 1  £  f  r  0  p  i  a . 

WE  must  now  take  our  readers  to  a  coffee-plan 
tation  in  the  interior  of  the  island  of  Cuba.  It  is 
not  one  of  any  great  extent  or  importance  ;  it  is 
worked  in  a  lazy  way  by  a  group  of  negroes  of 
either  sex,  who  are  old  and  decrepit,  being  past  ser 
vice  upon  the  sugar  plantations  of  the  proprietor. 
When  a  slave  gives  out  by  age,  or  is  disabled  in  any 
way,  he  is  sent  down  to  the  coffee  plantation,  where, 
with  light  work  and  kindly  treatment,  he  wears  out 
the  remainder  of  life.  Here  all  is  tranquil,  indolent 
and  kindly,  for  the  superintendent,  ISTonina  of  our 
story,  has  but  one  passion,  which  absorbs  all  others. 
Less  inert  than  the  white  Creole,  she  is  fond  of  her 
little  empire,  and  boasts  of  even  a  fine  stock  of 
slaves  whom  her  skill  prolongs  to  a  green  and  ser 
viceable  old  age. 

The  house  is  16w,  and  is  in  fact  a  series  of  veran 
dahs,  opening  in  all  directions,  the  interior  divided 
and  subdivided  by  heavy  and  gorgeous  curtains, 


A  HOME    ix    THE    TROPICS.         483 

sweeping  the  floor,  or  festooned  by  massive  rings 
and  tassels.  These  curtains  are  in  place  of  doors. 
Around  the  walls  are  couches  shaded  by  the  invaria 
ble  snowy  net,  sofas,  lounges,  and  cushions  of  the 
costliest  make,  relieved  by  vases,  guitars,  harps,  and 
pianos.  Groups  of  naked  children  roll  about  with 
low  gigglings  upon  the  piazza ;  old,  solemn  looking 
negroes  smoke  under  enormous  palm  trees  ;  large,  fat 
negresses,  in  gay  turbans,  move  lazily  here  and  there, 
spreading  lawn  upon  the  grass,  clapping  muslins  to 
clearness,  or  beating  sugars,  or  eggs,  or  rolling  pastry, 
preparatory  to  family  use.  Everything  has  a  gor 
geous  look,  for  the  people  delight  in  rich  colors,  vie- 
ing,  in  that  respect,  with  the  gay  parrots,  and  splen 
did  flamingoes,  and  sumptuous  flora,  of  the  region. 
There  is  a  large  white  parrot,  old  and  noisy,  and  he 
keeps  up  a  perpetual  clatter  to  the  people  as  they 
move  about,  scolding  one  and  laughing  at  another 
like  an  incarnated  imp.  The  sight  of  a  stranger 
turns  him  half  wild.  < 

The  sun  is  in  its  descent,  he  has  already  fallen  be 
hind  the  mountain  which  bars  up  the  western  pass  of 
the  valley.  The  tall  palm  trees  stand  motionless  in 
the  golden  twilight ;  the  vines  bend  under  their 
luscious  fruitage ;  roses  drop  slowly,  as  at  an  invisible 
touch,  their  petals  from  the  stalk ;  the  blossoms  of  the 
butterfly -plant  quiver  like  living  creatures,  and  you 


484  THE    NEWSBOY. 

cannot  tell  them  from  the  real  ones,  which  move 
from  side  to  side,  glancing  their  bright  colors,  and  sip 
ping  at  the  yellow  tubes  of  the  jesmine,  as  if  to 
shame  away  the  humming-bird  as  it  whizzes  through 
the  air,  and  poises  its  gay  gossamer  over  the  flowers. 
Slowly  steals  the  sea-breeze  along  the  valley,  so  light 
and  airy,  that  you.  would  not  know  of  his  presence 
but  for  the  odors  scattered  from  innumerable  flowers 
at  his  coming,  and  the  touch  of  coolness  borne  upon 
his  wings. 

Nonina  has  drawn  aside  the  curtains,  and  now  she 
stands  upon  the  piazza  watching  the  long  train  of 
peasants  as  they  wind  their  way  along  the  road  a 
mile  in  the  distance,  their  little  ponies  laden  with  pan 
niers,  and  the  nose  of  one  tied  each  to  the  tail  of  its 
predecessor,  a  not  inapt  illustration  of  "old  Fogy" 
progression.  These  montanos,  in  their  slouched  hats, 
with  high  boots  and  loose  garments,  belted  to  the 
waist,  are  as  picturesque  now  as  they  were  in  the 
times  of  Cervantes,  when  their  ancestors  threaded  in 
the  same  way  the  valleys  of  old  Spain.  One  of  their 
number  strikes  up  a  rude  song ;  another  has  a  cracked 
guitar  at  his  saddle-bow,  which  he  seizes  and  with 
which  he  drums  an  accompaniment,  others  strike  in 
to  the  chorus;  here  and  there  a  negro  starts  up  at 
the  sound  and  joins  his  voice  to  the  rich  melody, 
which  dies  away  amid  the  hills. 


A  HOME   IN   THE    TROPICS.         485 

Nonina  stands  watching  all  this,  and  jet  she  has 
not  seen  it  at  all.  Her  long,  snowy  robes  sweep  the 
piazza,  adown  which,  trailing  to  her  feet,  are  her 
glossy  curls,  and  a  part  of  these  she  holds  back  as  if 
to  listen,  while  the  other  hand  grasping  a  fan  is  held 
clenched  over  the  heart.  The  sun,  which  had  lighted 
up  her  rich  olive  cheek  and  brow,  had  fallen,  and  now 
only  showed  the  coral  of  her  lips,  while  the  shadow 
of  the  mountain  came  down  cold  and  gray  and  rested 
upon  her  head.  A  woman  listens  often  in  this  wise, 
and  as  often  the  shadow  comes ;  every  year,  as  little  by 
little  hope  dies  in  the  woman's  heart,  a  doubt  enters. 

A  soft  voice  from  within  sings  in  a  low  voice,  to 
the  touch  of  the  harp  : 

"  Oil  gorgeous  bright  are  Cuban  skies, 

And  dazzling  fair  its  bloom, 
But  dearer  far  to  me  arise, 
The  sombre  skies  of  home, 
The  simple  blooms  of  home. 

Oh,  mother,  slowly  fades  the  day, 

And  slowly  pass  the  years, 
Unnotedly  they  pass  away 

Marked  only  by  my  tears, 

My  bitter  falling  tears." 

A  dash  of  a  horse's  hoof  interrupted  the  song. 
ISTonina  sprang  forward  in  her  old,  animated  way,  ex 
claiming,  "Juan."  "Nina,"  returned  Cosmello,  fling 
ing  the  reins  over  the  neck  of  the  horse,  which  our 


486  THE    NEWSBOY. 

old  friend  Pomp  seized  at  once.  Hand  in  hand  the 
two  walked  the  piazza,  talking  in  a  low  voice. 

Nina  seemed  restless  and  disaffected  with  her 
lover,  for  she  said, 

"  You  come  often  to  mj  poor  house,  Juan,  of  late. 
I  did  not  expect  it,  as  time  wore  on;"  and  she 
glanced  with  a  quick,  penetrating  look  at  his  face. 

"  Not  too  often,  I  trust,  Nina,"  he  replied,  blowing 
the  smoke  lightly  from  his  cigar,  and  taking  it  from 
his  mouth.  After  awhile  he  asked,  "Where  is  Imo 
gen  ?"  As  he  spoke  the  girl  made  a  hurried  gesture, 
and  a  curtain  softly  closed  over  an  inner  room.  She 
answered,  "  in  bed,  moping  as  usual." 

The  curtain  which  had  been  dropped  was  sud 
denly  drawn  aside,  and  a  tall,  elegant  girl  stood  be 
fore  them.  Her  eyes  glowed  with  a  soft  internal 
light,  her  golden  brown  hair,  partially  knotted  at  the 
back  of  the  head,  was  braided  like  a  coronal  across 
the  clear,  white  brow,  and  gave  a  queenly  tone  to  the 
contour  of  her  finely-shaped  head.  A  snowy  robe  of 
muslin  fell  in  waves  about  her  person,  confined  at  the 
waist  by  a  rose-colored  girdle. 

"Queeney!"  exclaimed  Cosmello,  starting  for 
ward  with  a  glad  smile,  and  raising  her  hand  to  his 
lips. 

"I  came  not  for  this,"  she  replied  in  a  cold, 
haughty  tone,  withdrawing  her  hand. 


A  HOME    IN   THE    TROPICS.         487 

Nina  bit  her  lips  angrily :  "  "Why  are  you  here, 
Imogen?" 

•  "To  demand  my  release,  to  demand  my  return  to 
my  own  country.  Senor  Marcou,  I  have  had  the 
whole  story  of  your  love  and  your  revenge  from  the 
lips  of  Nina.  Mark  me,  so  true  as  yonder  cross,  (and 
she  pointed  to  the  constellation  in  the  heavens,)  the 
symbol  of  your  faith,  holds  its  eternal  way  in  tho 
heavens;  so  true  as  there  is  a  God  guiding  the 
destinies  of  men,  so  true  will  judgment  come."  She 
stood  with  her  hand  raised,  her  head  thrown  back, 
like  a  beautiful  prophet  denouncing  the  transgressor. 

"  She  speaks  truth,"  responded  Nonina ;  "  send  her 
away." 

The  Spaniard  at  this  grasped  the  wrist  of  Nonina, 
and  looking  her  sternly  in  the  face,  said,  "  This  is  a 
trick  of  yours,  girl,  to  get  up  this  scene.  What  devil 
ish  plot  have  you  in  store,  that  you  have  revealed  this 
tale?" 

The  quadroon's  eyes  flashed  their  snake-like 
glances,  and  she  flung  back  her  long  black  hair  im 
patiently,  as  she  withdrew  her  arm,  and  muttered, 

"  I  knew  it  would  come  to  this." 

"  Come  to  what?"  demanded  Cosmello. 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  and  Imogen  interrupted 
the  silence : 

"  I  have  listened  when  you  thought  me  deaf  and 


488  THE    NEWSBOY. 

dumb,  and  blind  with  grief;  I  have  studied  and 
learned  what  you  little  thought,  and  whose  purpose 
you  could  not  divine ;  I  have  patience — endurance — 
courage — I  will  be  free." 

"  Beautiful,  most  beautiful,"  whispered  the  Span 
iard. 

Imogen  heard  the  words.  She  confronted  him 
sharply,  her  cheek  grew  suddenly  pale,  she  raised 
the  curtain  and  disappeared.  Nonina  heard  the 
words  also,  she  started,  and  pressed  her  hand  again 
over  her  heart,  as  at  a  sudden  pang,  and  then  her 
hands  dropped  to  her  side,  and  she  staggered  against 
the  lattice ;  rousing  herself,  she  placed  her  hand  softly 
upon  the  shoulder  of  the  Spaniard. 

"  Juan,  it  is  enough ;  the  pride  of  the  father  is 
fully  humbled,  the  mother  dead,  the  household 
desolate — in  God's  name  have  pity,  and  return  the 
child." 

Cosmello  laughed  lightly.  "A  most  sudden  out 
break  of  tenderness  this  on  the  part  of  Nina.  Look 
here,  girl,"  and  he  put  his  fingers  under  her  chin,  as 
he  had  done  often  before,  and  lifted  the  face,  so  won 
drous  in  its  fascination,  upward;  "look  here,  Nina, 
your  sudden  kindness  is  as  transparent  as  the  trick 
of  the  bird  that  conceals  its  head  and  imagines  no 
body  can  see  the  whole  body.  I  will  not  return  the 
girl." 


A  HOME    IN    THE    TROPICS.         489 

"Why,  Juan?  tell  me  why." 

"Because  I  will  not." 

JSTonina  studied  his  face  in  silence.  This  time 
there  was  no  malice  in  her  look,  no  fiery  passions  of 
jealousy,  but  the  deep,  agonized  look  of  a  woman 
who  feels  that  the  love,  which  is  the  whole  world  to 
herself,  is  fading  from  the  heart  of  its  object.  It  was 
a  mute,  sorrowful  scrutiny,  so  sad,  so  womanly,  that 
the  Spaniard  was  softened ;  it  was  so  unlike  the  ordi 
nary  JSTonina,  that  it  touched  a  new  cord  in  her 
lover's  heart,  and  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom.  It  was 
well,  for  the  shadov^  of  the  mountain,  which  had 
rested  upon  her  head,  enveloped  now  her  whole  per 
son.  She  did  not  respond  in  her  wild,  passionate 
tears,  as  in  former  times,  but  leaned  her  head  softly 
upon  his  bosom  and  wept.  It  was  Cleopatra  in  one 
of  her  many  moods ;  Cleopatra,  whom 

"  Age  cannot  wither,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 

Shortly  her  mood  changed.  The  tenderness  of 
Cosmello  had  its  effect  to  re-assure  her,  and  she  met 
him  in  a  more  cheerful  vein ;  for  Nonina  was  of  an 
active,  busy  turn,  and  had  many  sources  of  interest, 
and  many  topics  of  conversation  with  which  to  amuse 
or  startle  the  listener  into  delight,  or  wonder.  She 
spoke  of  the  crops  of  her  little  plantation,  of  the  state 


490  THE    NEWSBOY. 

of  some  negroes  who  had  been  overworked  during 
the  sugar  crop,  and  had  been  sent  down  to  swell  the 
number  of  her  household.  She  did  not  fail  to  con 
demn  this  cruelty  in  no  measured  words.  She  went 
from  place  to  place,  and  exhibited  her  many  improve 
ments;  showed  a  span  of  elegant  saddle  horses,  one 
of  which  she  called  "Mignon,"  and  patted  fondly,  at 
which  the  animal  responded  with  a  glad  neigh,  and 
many  tramps  and  curvets. 

"And  whose  is  this?"  asked  her  companion,  pat 
ting  the  other  animal,  which  shrank  from  his  hand 
with  a  shiver  and  snort,  as  of  terror. 

"  Imogen  is  my  companion.  I  have  been  faithful 
in  her  training,  Juan,  because  you  wished  it;  but 
your  course  has  been  a  weak  one  in  regard  to  that 
girl,  Juan.  Some  time  it  will  all  out,  and  then  you 
will  see  that  my  advice  to  send  her  into  some  Euro 
pean  city  would  have  been  the  best  one." 

Juan  shuddered.  "Why  did  you  tell  her  that 
story  of  her  parents  ?  ISTonina,  I  distrust  you." 

"  I  was  ill,  and  like  to  die,  and  Imogen  cared  for 
me  so  tenderly  that  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  think 
ing  death  at  hand,  I  revealed  all." 

"  Fool,  coward  !"  exclaimed  the  Spaniard. 

"  Yes,  Juan,  I  was  weak ,  but  it  seemed  to  me  day 
after  day  that  the  pains  of  purgatory  opened  beneath 


A  HOME    IN    THE    TROPICS.         491 

me.  You  were  in  Europe,  no  one  came  to  me,  no  one 
cared  for  me,  but  this  poor,  injured  child." 

"And  so  you  sent  for  the  priest  and  confessed 
all." 

"  No.  no,  Juan,  mad  as  I  was,  I  told  only  Imogen, 
thinking  if  I  died  the  prayers  of  one  so  pure  might 
help  me." 

"  Fool,  coward !"  ejaculated  her  companion  once 
more.  "But  it  will  avail  her  nothing.  In  this  isl 
and,  among  a  people  of  foreign  faith,  and  govern 
ment,  and  language,  she  is  in  effect  dead.  Thank  God, 
the  Spaniard  meddles  not  with  the  affairs  of  his 
neighbor.  The  Spaniard  minds  his  own  business." 

"  And  yet  I  fear,  Juan.  Something  tells  me  evil 
is  at  hand." 

"You  are  ill,  Nina,"  replied  the  other,  looking 
tenderly  into  her  face. 

Nonina  shook  her  head,  "  No,  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  am—" 

At  this  moment  a  bird  near  at  hand  poured  out 
a  flood  of  such  wild,  ecstatic  melody  as  at  once  to 
arrest  thought  and  speech.  It  was  familiarly  called 
the  musician,  from  its  varied  and  exquisite  notes. 
The  moon  was  just  rising,  and  where  the  two  stood 
under  the  open  sky;  the  topmost  twig  of  a  neighbor 
ing  orange-tree  was  observed  to  sway  and  quiver  in 
the  light.  Quick  as  thought  Cosmello  levelled  a  pis- 


492  THE    NEWSBOY. 

tol  from  his  pocket,  and  shot  the  songster  to  the 
heart. 

"  An  evil-omened  act,"  murmured  Nonina. 

"  You  grow  as  superstitious  as  a  weak,  canting 
priest,"  Nina.  This  solitude  is  too  much  for  you.  We 
will  go  to  the  Havana  and  court  gaiety  for  awhile." 

"  No,  no,  I  like  this  place ;  here  I  have  been  most 
happy ;  here  there  is  not  a  bird,  a  shrub,  a  shadow  of 
the  mountain  which  has  not  witnessed  some  passionate 
joy.  The  very  air  is  filled  with  thy  love-tones,  Juan. 
Nina  is  queen,  priestess,  nun,  lover  here.  Oh  Juan  ! 
my  pulses  thrill  at  a  thousand  memories  lost  to  me 
elsewhere.  Alas  !  happiness  so  exquisite  as  mine 
must  come  to  a  close.  I  have  felt  the  joys,  and  must 
know  the  pangs  of  existence." 

Both  were  awhile  silent.  At  length  Nonina,  chang 
ing  her  foreboding  tone,  said,  "  I  hear  vessels  have 
arrived  to  you  from  New  York  ;  to-morrow  I  go  to 
the  city  and  learn  what  I  may.  I  am  full  of  presen 
timents,  and  action  will  chase  them  away.  Look 
here,  Juan,"  and  she  raised  a  leaf  of  the  vine  and 
showed  the  under  surface  white,  while  above  it  was 
green. 

Cosmello  laughed  lightly.  "  A  shroud,  Nina;  we '11 
wind  it  round  old  Carumbo,  the  white  parrot,  who 
keeps  such  a  confounded  screaming  to-night." 

"  Carumbo  has  something  on  his  poor  brain,  I  am 


A  HOME    IN    THE    T n o r i c s .         493 

sure,"  answered  ISTonina.     "  It  may  be  a  snake  on  the 
premises,"  she  added  musingly. 

"I'll  wring  his  neck  for  him,  and  that  will  suffice 
for  all  your  omens ;  he 's  '  the  oldest  inhabitant'  here, 
and  nobody  would  be  more  missed  than  Carumbo," 
answered  Cosmello. 


LXII. 


THERE  was  indeed  a  cause  for  the  screaming  of 
Carumbo,  little  imagined  by  the  listeners.  Juan  had 
long  since  confessed  to  himself  a  growing  passion  for 
Imogen.  Years  ago,  when  her  light  figure  crossed  his 
path  in  New  York,  he  had  felt  an  interest  so  inex 
plicable,  that  he  supposed  it  but  the  action  of  a  re 
venge  which  had  engrossed  the  thoughts  of  his  youth 
and  manhood.  Whatever  it  was,  the  effect  had  been 
to  confirm  every  plot  for  her  abduction,  till  he  had 
felt  that  life  itself  were  valueless  without  its  achieve 
ment.  "When  this  was,  as  we  have  seen,  securely  ac 
complished,  and  the  beautiful  child  in  his  power,  he 
was  for  awhile  content.  Indeed,  so  content  had  he 
been,  that  his  design  originally  to  write  to  Dinsmoor, 
telling  him  that  the'  loss,  and  forever,  of  Imogen,  was 
owing  to  the  revenge  of  a  Spaniard,  the  retribution 
of  an  injured  lover,  and  that  Spaniard  and  lover 


A    SURPKISE.  495 

Marcou,  passed  out  of  Ms  mind  as  too  puerile  a  tri 
umph. 

Other  thoughts,  more  wild  and  guilty,  came,  but 
the  purity  of  the  child,  her  soft,  maidenly  tears,  her 
sweet,  confiding  prayers,  her  unaffected  piety,  as  year 
by  year  she  grew  into  womanly  beauty,  all  conspired 
to  change  his  evil  purposes.  Sometimes  he  did  not 
see  her  for  many  months,  for  she  was  vigilantly 
watched  by  the  jealous  Nonina,  who  kept  her  from 
his  presence  under  various  pretexts  ;  she  was  ill,  she 
had  some  distemper,  she  was  at  her  prayers;  and 
Juan,  enwrapt  in  the  fascinations  of  Nonina,  forgot 
even  his  revenge. 

Now,  however,  it  had  been  for  a  long  time  other 
wise.  He  had  travelled  in  Europe,  and  returned  un 
expectedly  to  find  his  captive  and  Nonina  together. 
-Imogen  was  now  more  beautiful  than  even  the 
promise  of  her  childhood  ;  for,  thrown  upon  herself  as 
she  had  been,  feeling  the  need  of  self-reliance  as  she 
had  done,  her  beauty  had  that  tone  of  intellect  and 
dignity  in  which  it  might  otherwise  have  been  defi 
cient.  Cosmello  saw  all  this,  and  a  dream  more 
beautiful  than  the  one  of  his  youth  grew  upon  his 
rich,  fertile  imagination.  ISTonina,  with  the  true  in 
stinct  of  love,  read  all  this  also.  She  became  moody 
and  dispirited,  wept  where  she  had  once  so  queened 
it,  and  strove,  by  various  means,  to  rouse  the  fears  of 


496  THE    NEWSBOY. 

her  lover,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  relent  and  send 
Imogen  away.  She  slept  little,  she  wandered  from 
place  to  place,  concocting  a  thousand  plans  to  do  this 
herself,  and  was  only  deterred  therefrom  by  fear  of 
Cosmello,  whose  cold,  vindictive  nature  she  too  well 
knew.  She  saw,  day  by  day,  the  waning  of  her  own 
power,  and  she  too  grew  to  brood  over  plots  of  re 
venge  at  possible  injuries.  She  became  devout  also, 
practiced  fastings  and  penances,  as  the  strong  in  pas 
sion  and  weak  in  moral  purpose  are  apt  to  do,  hoping 
the  good  Father,  who  demands  integrity  of  heart,  may 
be  deluded  into  favor  by  one-sided  oblations. 

"When  Cosmello,  gallantly  mounted  as  he  was, 
rode  along  the  richly-shaded  highway,  had  he  looked 
backward  he  would  have  seen  that  he  was  closely  fol 
lowed  by  a  rider,  mounted  upon  one  of  the  fleet  little 
ponies  of  the  island.  This  rider  kept  at  a  short  com 
parative  distance,  never  losing  sight  of  him,  and  yet 
never  obtrusively  in  sight.  When  Cosmello  turned 
down  the  rich  citron  avenue,  along  which  hung  the 
luscious  fruitage  of  the  tropics,  the  stranger  passed 
onward,  and  then  dismounting  amid  a  thickly-set 
grove  of  acacias,  tied  the  small  animal  under  the 
dense,  prickly  foliage,  and  found  his  way  to  the 
grounds  by  a  more  circuitous  pathway. 

Imogen  retired,  as  we  have  seen,  from  the  boldly- 
expressed  admiration  of  the  Spaniard,  regretting  her 


A    Su ii PRISE.  497 

temerity,  and  regretting  the  secret  she  had  betrayed, 
fearing  it  might  subject  her  to  closer  espionage ;  but  in 
confronting  Cosmello  as  she  had  done  she  had  hoped 
to  rouse  him  by  fear,  or  some  other  motive  akin  to  it, 
to  return  her  to  her  country  and  her  home.  She  had 
never  imagined  any  sentiment  of  tenderness  on  his 
part  in  regard  to  herself,  for  Marcou  was  too  much 
the  gentleman,  and  too  finished  an  admirer  of  beauty, 
to  hazard  its  disgust  at  any  gross  or  premature  ad 
vances.  He  possessed  a  never-flagging  pertinacity 
of  nature,  which  could  never  be  turned  aside  from 
its  purpose.  He  had  none  of  the  flighty  impulses 
of  ordinary  minds.  A  matter  of  little  value  in  it 
self  became  of  primary  import  because  he  had  con 
ceived  it,  and  therefore  he  never  swerved  till  it  was 
accomplished.  In  doing  this  there  was  within  him 
a  mine,  as  it  were,  of  subtle,  unfailing  resource,  open 
ing  as  occasion  might  demand,  slowly  yet  surely. 
He  could  wait,  as  we  have  seen,  for  years ;  wait,  but  it 
was  no  idle  waiting.  He  had  intermediate  plots  and 
plans,  sources  of  happiness,  and  faithful,  unwearied 
tools ;  and  thus  he  moved  for  years,  to  most  of  per 
sons  a  superior,  elegant,  somewhat  taciturn  man;  to 
the  church  a  devout  and  munificent  disciple ;  to  his 
dependents  a  somewhat  indulgent,  yet  in  "  crop 
times"  most  exacting  mas^er ;  to  the  poor,  passionate, 
devoted  quadroon,  a  lover  fond  and  generous,  if  not 


498  THE  NEWSBOY. 

true;  but  one  who  lost  not  his  individualism  in 
hours  of  absorption ;  who  never  left  the  poor  girl  a 
moment  clear  from  doubt,  notwithstanding  all  his  as 
severations.  Dona  Isabella  did  not  intermeddle  with 
him  in  the  least.  When  he  dropped  her  family  name 
of  Marcou  and  took  that  of  his  father,  her  haughty 
family  pride  was  wounded  that  no  representative  was 
left  to  it ;  but  a  Spanish  woman  is  too  wise  to  fret,  too 
passionate  to  complain  when  nothing  is  to  be  gained 
thereby  ;  so  the  handsome  Dona  smoked  her  cigarito, 
fanned  herself,  went  to  confession  and  said  nothing. 

All  these  traits  of  character,  as  we  have  seen, 
had  conspired  to  render  Cosmello  guarded  in  his  ap 
proaches  to  Imogen.  He  knew  the  deadly  hostility 
which  might  be  roused  in  the  quadroon,  whose  un 
scrupulous  jealousy  was  so  much  to  be  feared,  and 
now  he  was  planning  to  remove  Imogen  from  her  pro 
tection,  and  place  her  where  his  admission  to  her 
presence  would  meet  with  fewer  obstacles. 

When  Imogen  retired  to  her  room  she  dismissed 
her  black  attendant,  after  she  had  carefully  fastened 
down  the  curtains  of  her  room,  declining  her  aid 
in  the  toilet,  for,  in  her  present  state  of  mind,  the 
bead-like  eyes  of  the  negress,  turning  from  side  to 
side  as  if  they  floated  in  milk,  irritated  and  annoyed 
her. 

"Missie  do  herself?  do  hers  hair?  do  hers  feet? 


A    SUE  PRISE.  499 

do  hers  dress  ?''  she  persisted,  magnifying  the  difficul 
ties  of  the  toilet. 

"  Yes,  all  Eosa,"  and  at  this  the  good  creature, 
glad  to  be  released,  ducked  under  the  folds  of  the 
curtain,  and  disappeared.  Scarcely  had  she  done  so, 
before  Imogen  stepped  out  upon  a  verandah  opening 
upon  an  extensive  garden,  lying  in  a  direction  oppo 
site  to  the  one  which  we  have  just  seen.  In  this 
beautiful  climate,  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars,  con 
trasting  with  the  dense  foliage  beneath,  is  at  once 
startling  and  brilliant.  Night-blooming  flowers  at 
tract  the  eye,  and  the  low  soft  notes  of  birds  who 
sing  u  darkling,"  imparts  a  soft,  voluptuous  air  to 
nature,  rendering  the  night  far  lovelier  than  the  day. 
Odorous  plants  fill  the  senses  with  a  dreamy  softness, 
so  that  the  mind  falls  into  delicious  reveries,  predispos 
ing  it  to  love,  and  to  the  enchantments  of  the  senses. 

It  is  probable  these  had  had  their  effect  upon  the 
growing  mind  of  Imogen,  and  rendered  her  confine 
ment  more  endurable  than  it  might  otherwise  have 
been.  Still  she  had  never  fallen  into  forgetfulness, 
never  lost  sight  of  the  dear  ones  whose  memory  were 
in  her  prayers,  and  deeply  in  her  young,  pure  heart. 
She  was  not  ungrateful  to  the  excitable  and  wayward 
Nonina,  who,  in  spite  of  her  jealous  fears,  had  even 
learned  to  love  a  being,  whose  existence  had  con 
tributed  to  gratify  even  the  hatred  of  her  lover. 


500  THE   NEWSBOY. 

Imogen,  in  the  course  of  her  walk,  approached  the 
confines  of  the  garden,  where  a  hedge  of  acacia  pro 
hibited  egress  from  that  corner.  As  she  stood  here, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  beautiful  constellation  of  the 
southern  cross,  she  fancied  her  own  name  was  pro 
nounced  close  to  her  ear.  She  listened ;  there  was  a 
brief  silence,  and  then  some  one  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  Miss  Dinsmoor ;  'cause  why  ? 
it  is  a  friend  who  speaks  to  you." 

Imogen  clasped  her  hands,  half  in  terror,  half  in 
joy;  it  was  so  long  since  she  had  heard  her  own 
name,  or  the  sound  of  an  English  word.  While  she 
thus  stood,  a  tall  young  man  appeared  from  the 
thicket  into  the  moonlight,  and  then  motioned  her  to 
follow  him  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

Imogen  saw  a  pale,  thin  youth,  whose  tones  and 
looks  recalled  a  memory  of  her  childhood.  There 
was  something,  too,  in  his  grave  face,  and  calm,  manly 
voice,  which  inspired  confidence ;  and  with  conflicting 
thoughts  and  emotions,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
stranger's  arm,  saying, 

"  For  God's  sake,  tell  me  who  and  what  you  are, 
and  whence  you  come  ?" 

"  You  may  have  forgotten,  Silver-tongue,  the  poor 
Newsboy  who  lived  in  the  railway-car,  but  three 
times  you  have  laid  your  hand  upon  Bob's  arm,  be 
fore  now." 


A   SURPRISE.  501 

The  simplicity  of  this  reply  had  its  full  effect 
upon  the  listener ;  a  flood  of  memories,  long  stifled, 
half  forgotten,  rushed  over  her,  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"No,  no,  never  forgotten ;  I  remember  all.  And 
you,  how  came  you  here  ? — tell  me  of  my  mother," 
she  gasped,  pale  as  death,  and  staggering  to  one  side. 

The  Newsboy  was  silent  for  awhile,  and  then  he 
answered  slowly,  "Your  father,  and  Aunt  Beckey, 
and  Dady,  were  all  well  a  few  weeks  since." 

"  My  mother,  oh,  my  mother,"  she  cried ;  and 
then,  seeing  he  did  not  reply,  she  gasped  faintly,  "she 
is  dead !"  and  but  for  the  aid  of  the  Newsboy,  would 
have  fallen  upon  the  ground. 

The  young  man  laid  her  gently  upon  the  flower 
ing  turf,  and  bore  water  from  the  neighboring  foun 
tain  with  which  to  sprinkle  her  face. 

"When  she  opened  her  eyes,  he  said:  "In  your 
father's  house  the  bath  has  been  always  filled ;  your 
little  robes  are  still  upon  the  wall,  as  you  left  them ; 
blossoms  bloom  upon  the  table,  all  awaiting  the  return 
of  Imogen." 

She  wept  at  the  recital  of  these  proofs  of  tender 
ness,  only  adding,  "but  my  mother,  my  sweet,  dear 
mother,  gone,  gone!" 

The  Newsboy  did  not  interrupt  her.  At  length 
he  said,  "  Ah !  Miss  Imogen,  God  would  never  give 


502  THE    NEWSBOY. 

us  tears  if  lie  did  not  mean  we  should  shed  them,"  and 
now  the  youth  held  his  hand  over  his  heart,  as  he  did 
whenever  he  thought  of  little  Minnie ;  and  he  looked 
just  so  pale,  just  so  sad  as  he  did  years  ago.  Bob  had 
other  griefs  it  may  be  at  his  heart ;  griefs  which  all 
the  sweet  ministry  of  Dady,  and  the  little  hand  of 
Minnie,  could  not  comfort. 

Then  he  told  of  Aunt  Beckey,  of  Dady,  and  the 
last  hours  of  poor  Fannie,  and  added,  "  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  my  head  in  blessings."  Imogen  reached 
hers  cordially  to  the  youth. 

"  Tell  me  of  my  father ;  how  does  he  look  ?  is  he 
much  changed  ?  does  he  mourn  for  Imogen  ?" 

"Your  father,  I'm  bound  to  say,  is  a  handsome 
man,  and  above-board,  Miss  Imogen." 

"  Has  he  grown  gray  ?" 

"  Yes,  his  head  is  white." 

"  Poor,  dear  father,"  murmured  the  girl ;  "  does  he 
walk  strong  and  straight?" 

"  I  'm  bound  to  own,  he  stoops  much." 

"Alas!  alas!  Is  his  mind  clear?  I  know  his 
heart  is  good." 

"Yes,  there  is  no  abatement  of  mind;  and  the 
poor,  and  the  suffering,  are  helped  by  him.  He  is  a 
good,  manly  man,  I  am  bound  to  say,"  and  the  tears 
were  in  the  eyes  of  the  youth. 

"  God  be  praised,"  responded  Imogen.     "  Now  tell 


A   SURPRISE.  503 

me  of  Aunt  Beckey ;  slie  looks  kindly  after  my  poor, 
dear  father,  and  your  little  Dady  is  caressed  by  him, 
and  you  are  his  friend  and  his  companion.  You  saw 
all  this  but  a  fortnight  since — saw  my  dear,  dear 
father,  walked  with  him,  talked  with  him,"  and  she 
lifted  her  head,  and  looked  into  the  Newsboy's  face 
with  a  sweet,  earnest  cordiality. 

"It  is  many  years  since  I  heard  a  word  from 
home ;  great  changes  must  have  taken  place  ;  the  trees 
at  the  door  must  have  greatly  grown !"  The  Newsboy 
assented  by  a  smile.  "  And  you,  my  good,  kind 
friend,  you  are  grown ;  I  remember  I  thought  you 
younger  than — "  she  blushed  and  was  silent. 

A  quick  pang  shot  through  the  heart  of  the 
Newsboy,  and  he  laid  his  hand  over  his  heart  as  was 
his  wont.  He  needed  Minnie's  hand  now,  but  he  an 
swered  calmly, 

"  I  'm  bound  to  own,  Miss  Dinsmoor,  I  'm  nothing 
but  a  sea-born  child.  I  do  not  know  my  age,  but  I 
am  younger  than  Charles  Gardner." 

Imogen's  cheek  deepened  to  a  blush,  which  the 
Newsboy  marked,  and  marked  also  how  the  eyes  of 
the  fair  listener  drooped  downward.  He  did  not  at 
once  speak,  but  something  told  him  that  busy  ques 
tionings  were  in  the  heart  of  the  beautiful  girl,  which 
the  lips  refused  to  make. 

"  Charles  Gardner  is  a  handsome  youth  ;  not  dash- 


504  THE    NEWSBOY. 

ing,  and  it  may  be  brave,  like  Flashy  Jack,  but  a 
young  man  well  esteemed." 

Imogen's  foot  played  a  quick,  it  may  be  impatient 
movement,  upon  the  grass.  "  Such  a  youth  finds 
ready  favor,"  she  murmured. 

"  Yes,  women  esteem  him  highly,  but  he  does  not 
forget  you,  Miss  Imogen ;  he  talks  of  you  often,  I  'm 
bound  to  say,"  answered  Bob,  with  simple  candor. 

Imogen's  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  they  dropped 
now  upon  the  grass,  and  tears  swelled  from  beneath 
the  lids.  Bob  was  very  pale,  and  both  were  silent. 
Inquiries  followed  in  rapid  succession,  plans  to  meet 
again,  plans  for  the  escape  of  Imogen  were  discussed, 
till  the  southern  cross,  now  bent  in  its  descent  to  the 
horizon,  admonished  them  that  their  interview  must 
close. 


LXIII. 


BOB  had  reached  the  island  after  a  quick  and 
pleasant  voyage.  He  had  always  been  convinced,  in 
his  own  mind,  that  the  Cosmello  of  Abingdon  Square, 
was  the  Cosmello  of  the  Cuban  house,  a  coincidence 
to  which  Mr.  Dinsmoor  had  attached  very  little  im 
portance.  He  respected  the  character  he  learned  of 
the  one,  and  the  Cuban  planters  were  in  the  highest 
degree  honorable  in  their  dealings  with  him.  So  also 
the  vision  of  Fannie,  just  at  the  time  of  her  departure, 
had  impressed  his  pure,  mystic  mind  more  deeply 
than  others,  and  he  often  said  to  himself, 

"  It  's  natural-like  that  the  spirit  should  see  what 
is  hid  from  common  eyes.  'Cause  why  ?  God  gives 
to  the  spirit  its  faculties  ;  there  would  be  no  spirit  if 
there  was  no  powers  for  it,  and  it  takes  hold  of  that 
which  it  most  longs  to  grasp.  In  the  street  I  pass  a 
thousand  faces  and  do  not  see  them,  but  my  friend  I 

see  because  we  are  one  in  spirit.     So  with  the  dying 
22 


506  THE    NEWSBOY. 

mother,  she  longed  for  her  child,  she  died  with  long 
ing,  and  God  opened  her  eyes  to  behold  her." 

Bob,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  only  generous  but 
in  the  highest  degree  deep  in  his  attachments.  Al 
though  he  had  scarcely  looked  at  the  child,  Imogen, 
at  Grace  Church,  she  had,  somehow,  never  left  his 
thoughts ;  then  when  they  met  again,  and  again,  the 
impression  had  each  time  deepened.  Imogen's  good 
ness,  Imogen's  sweetness,  had  been  the  theme  of  daily 
talk ;  the  poor,  dying  mother  had  so  coupled  him  with 
Imogen,  had  so  looked  to  him  for  help,  that  somehow 
she  had  become  shrined  in  the  heart  of  the  Newsboy 
as  the  fairest  vision  there.  "When  Charles  Gardner 
spoke  of  her,  always  with  a  sweet  reverence,  his 
heart  warmed  toward  the  gay  youth,  more  sympa- 
thizingly  than  it  might  otherwise  have  done,  for  there 
was  a  certain  levity  about  him  by  no  means  pleasing 
to  the  Newsboy. 

Reaching  Cuba,  the  first  glance  of  Bob  confirmed 
his  suspicions,  for  the  two  Cosmellos  were  one  and 
the  same.  He  had  found  an  opportunity  to  see  him 
without  being  seen,  and  withholding  letters  from  the 
house  till  he  had  learned  further  in  regard  to  the 
Spaniard,  he  had  followed  him,  and  bqen  so  fortunate 
as  to  obtain  an  interview  with  Imogen,  as  we  have 
seen,  before  Cosmello  had  learned  of  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Dinsmoor's  agent. 


AN   INTERVIEW.  507 

The  day  after  the  interview  we  have  described, 
Bob  was  making  his  way  through  the  principal 
thoroughfare  of  Havana,  when  he  was  struck  by  ob 
serving  that  a  volante  of  a  handsomer  than  ordinary 
construction,  with  the  screen  in  front  down,  was  fol 
lowing  his  movements.  He  turned  round  and  saw  a 
pair  of  large,  intensely  black  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
from  the  little  glass  at  the  side.  Presently  a  hand 
beckoned  him  to  approach. 

"  Meet  me  at  once,  outside  the  walls,"  said  a  low 
voice. 

The  Newsboy  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  vo 
lante,  followed  it  out  into  the  suburbs,  where  the 
coarse  grass  and  gorgeous  cacti  showed  the  aridness 
of  the  soil,  and  the  long  range  of  white  sand  inter 
mixed  with  gay  shells  lined  the  margin  of  the  sea. 
The  air  was  hot,  but  a  light  breeze  cooled  its  fervor, 
and  soon  they  found  a  shelter  beneath  a  clump  of 
palmettoes.  Here  the  volante  stopped,  the  screen 
was  put  aside,  and  the  woman  with  the  wen,  the 
sharp,  eager,  deaf  woman,  showed  herself  from 
within. 

"  Have  you  seen  me  before  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have/*  answered  the  Newsboy,  "  and  I  am 
bound  to  say  to  no  good  purpose." 

Nonina  tore  away  her  disguise  with  a  quick,  im 
patient  gesture. 


508  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"  Why  do  you  know  me  to  no  good  purpose?"  she 
asked. 

"  The  cause  why  is  best  known  to  yourself.  But 
I  am  bound  to  say,  I  believe  you  guilty  of  a  crime 
which—-" 

"  We  have  n't  time  for  twattle,"  said  the  woman ; 
"  we  '11  discuss  moral  points  hereafter ;  but  the  man  or 
woman  who  fails  to  gratify  revenge,  is  a  poor,  miser 
able,  puling  coward.  I  have  helped  others,  now  I 
will  have  my  own." 

"According  to  my  way  of  thinking,"  answered 
Bob,  "  revenge  upon  an  innocent  girl  is  little  short  of 
devilish." 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  girl?" 

"  Yes,  more  than  once." 

"  Was  she  beautiful?" 

Bob  blushed,  and  replied,  "  I  am  bound  to  say,  no 
thing  in  my  dreams,  nothing  in  Our  Gal,  nor  in  Mag 
gie,  was  half  so  beautiful." 

"  You  loved  that  child,"  said  the  other  sharply. 

The  Newsboy  pressed  his  hand  over  his  heart  in 
silence. 

"You  loved  the  child — the  woman  is  in  my 
power ;  she  is  more  incomparably  beautiful  than  I 
can  describe."  Here  she  stopped,  bit  her  lips,  and 
breathed  as  if  in  pain.  "  Yes,  she  is  beautiful — the 
fair,  soft,  unmeaning  beauty  of  the  north ;  but  it  has 


AN    INTERVIEW.  509 

its  effects — has  had  it  where  it  shall  not,  and  must  not 
be.  What  is  your  name,  Senor  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"  Bob  Seaborn." 

The  woman  smiled.  u  Monsieur  Seaborn — Sefior 
Seaborn." 

"What  you  will,"  answered  the  Newsboy,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  strange,  startling  fascinations  of 
the  speaker. 

"  Senor  Seaborn,  will  you  marry  Signorina  Imo 
gen?" 

The  color  of  the  Newsboy  came  and  went;  a 
bright  glow  was  in  his  deep,  melancholy  eye. 

"  Speak,  Senor ;  you  love  her,  every  look  tells  me 
you  do.  If  you  will  marry  the  girl,  she  shall  be 
yours." 

Bob  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  he  re 
plied,  "I  am  bound  to  say,  I  am  weak-hearted;  what 
you  say  strikes  me  very  nearly —  " 

"  Will  you  marry  her  ?" 

"I  cannot  answer;  'cause  why?  Miss  Dinsmoor 
might  choose  otherwise.  I  am  no  sneak  to  marry  a 
woman  against  her  will,  or  when  she  isn't  clear  to 
choose." 

"  This  is  weak,  Senor  Seaborn.  The  girl  can  be 
free  in  no  other  way.  You  love  her — she  is  in  my 
way ;  she  shall  be  immured  in  a  convent,  hidden  for 
ever  from  the  world,  or  go  with  you." 


510  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"  I  am  but  a  sea-born  child,  ma'am.  I  have  no 
name,  nor  friends,  except  poor  outcasts  like  myself. 
I  owe  my  fortune  and  place  to  the  father  of  this 
young  lady.  I  am  bound  to  say,  he  loves  me.  I  am 
weak-hearted,  ma'am,  but  I  have  n't  a  single  streak  of 
the  rascal  in  me.  I  would  not  by  any  manner  of 
means  take  advantage  of  the  situation  of  Miss  Imogen 
to  compel  her  out  of  fear  to  give  her  hand  to  me." 

"  As  you  will,"  returned  the  other.  "  She  shall 
go  to  the  convent  of  our  Lady,"  she  muttered.  "I 
will  bring  the  power  of  the  Church  to  keep  her  there, 
and  as  for  this  green  youth — why — why  his  secrets 
die  with  him.  As  the  wife  of  this  dirt-scrub  of  New 
York,"  (thus  did  she  designate  the  Newsboy,)  "  even 
Juan's  revenge  ought  to  be  content,  would  be  con 
tent,  but  for  his  false  heart."  All  this  passed  rapidly 
through  her  mind,  as  she  settled  backward  in  the 
volante,  doubtful  what  course  to  pursue. 

"  One  thing  more,  Senor  Seaborn  ;  marry  the  girl 
for  the  sake  of  her  freedom.  The  Church  will  pro 
tect  her  as  your  wife.  I  could  call  in  powerful  aid 
then,  which  is  forbidden  me  otherwise.  Even  Senor, 
her  captor,"  she  substituted  for  the  name,  "  will  have 
no  power  to  take  her  from  you  as  your  wife,  pro 
tected  as  she  would  be  by  the  government  and  the 
Church." 

"Oh,  I  could  bear  to  lose  him,  but  I  could  not 


AN   INTERVIEW.  511 

yield  him  to  another.  I  could  bear  death  from  his 
rage,  but  not  the  misery  of  his  loss,"  she  uttered 
under  her  breath,  revolving,  as  she  leaned  back  in 
the  volante,  the  probable  contingencies  of  her  situa 
tion.  Recovering  herself,  she  went  on. 

"  Marry  her  for  form's  sake,  Senor  Seaborn ;  her 
protector  would  have  to  submit,  The  truth  known, 
would  bring  down  the  authorities  upon  him  ;  I  have 
but  to  denounce  him,  and  he  dies  the  death,  or  shares 
the  prison  of  the  felon." 

UI  can  denounce  him  as  well  as  you,  Madam." 
<•'  Then  you  never  behold  her  again.     Who  would 
believe  you?     Look  at  me.     I  am  not  to  be  trifled 
with — I  am  armed — I  do  not  fear  death.     Marry  her 
for  form's  sake,  and  I  will  put  her  into  your  power." 
"  Why  not  do  so  without  this  marriage?" 
"Because  of  the  power,  the  wealth  of — ;  because 
you  could  not  get  her  out  of  this  island  without  the 
aid  of  the  authorities  and  the  Church,  both  of  which 
you  should  have.     Will  you  submit  to  the  terms  ?" 

There  was  no  wavering  in  the  heart  of  the  News 
boy.  He  hesitated  to  speak,  because  he  was  weighing 
the  chances  of  escape.  Whatever  might  have  been 
the  dear,  secret  desires  of  his  heart,  he  knew  how  to 
combat  them,  when  the  shadow  of  a  stain,  the  shadow 
of  an  injury  or  injustice  followed  their  fulfilment. 
Lowly  as  had  been  the  life  of  the  Newsboy,  it  had 


512  THE   NEWSBOY. 

taught  him  a  tender  reverence  for  others,  as  well  as  a 
manly  knowledge  of  his  own  worth.  Impatient  at  his 
silence,  Nonina  repeated  her  terms. 

"I  am  heart- weak,  it  may  be,  ma'am,  but  I  could 
not  do  this  thing.  'Cause  why  ?  I  might  grow  man- 
weak,  were  Miss  Imogen  wholly  in  my  power.  I  will 
do  my  best,  ma'am,  and  trust  that  Grod  will  provide  a 
way." 

"  Fool !"  ejaculated  Nonina.  "  Do  not  follow  me, 
it  would  not  be  well,"  she  cried,  looking  from  the 
volante,  as  it  moved  onward. 

Bob  remembered  he  had  no  need  of  this,  as  his 
previous  visit  had  given  him  the  secret  of  Imogen's 
retreat.  He  feared,  however,  some  evil  from  the 
jealous  vindictiveness  of  Nonina,  who  might  immure 
her  in  a  convent  or  carry  her  to  some  desolate  place 
upon  the  island,  for  his  instincts  told  him  that  she  had 
known  a  lover  in  Cosmello,  and  had  found  a  rival  in 
Imogen.  "While,  therefore,  Nonina  went  from  place 
to  place  in  the  vain  hope  of  finding  Juan,  and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  call  upon  the  haughty,  indolent 
Dona  Isabella,  in  her  search,  the  Newsboy  was 
quietly  wending  his  way  to  the  little  coffee  plantation 
among  the  mountains.  There  he  hoped  to  devise 
some  mode  of  removing  her  from  the  power  of  the 
Spaniard.  He  knew  that  an  appeal  to  the  authori 
ties  would  result  in  nothing,  for  the  wealth  and  in- 


AN    INTERVIEW.  513 

fluence  of  Cosmello  were  such,  that  lie,  a  foreigner, 
would  risk  his  own  life  and  freedom  in  even  hinting 
at  the  crime  of  the  native.  He  had  observed  the  fine, 
manly  tone  of  the  mountain  peasants,  and  through 
these  he  hoped  to  achieve  her  rescue. 

Discussing  these  things  in  his  mind,  he  rode  on 
ward,  keeping  his  pony  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
covert  of  the  woods,  and  always  seeking  some  by 
path  at  the  approach  of  wheels.  It  was  nearly  sun 
set  when  he  approached  the  plantation.  Suddenly 
he  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  and  the  trampling  of 
horses,  when  a  volante,  usually  so  slow  and  luxuri 
ous  in  its  movements,  dashed  along  the  heavily - 
shaded  road.  At  once  Bob  recognized  it  as  the  vo 
lante  of  Nonina,  who,  having  failed  in  her  search  for 
Juan,  had  followed  an  irresistible  outburst  of  jeal 
ousy,  surmising  he  might  take  the  time  of  her  ab 
sence  to  visit  Imogen. 


LXIV. 


THE  negro  mounted  upon  the  forward  liorse  of 
the  volante,  whipped  and  spurred  forward  the  over 
heated  beast.  The  dust  rolled  up  along  the  path  in 
heavy  folds,  the  vehicle  swung  right  and  left,  flew 
along  the  road,  turned  down  the  avenue  of  cit 
rons  and  approached  the  verandah.  Old  Carumbo 
screamed  vociferously,  first  at  the  approach  of  his 
mistress  in  such  hot  haste,  and  next  at  the  approach 
of  a  stranger,  for  Bob  had  suddenly  determined  to 
confront  the  quadroon  in  her  own  mansion,  and  trust 
to  the  turn  of  events  as  to  what  should  follow. 

As  Nonina  sprang  from  the  vehicle,  she  gathered 
up  her  robes  hastily,  and  proceeded  along  the  piazza. 

"  Massa  Juan  toder  side,  Massa  Juan  toder  side," 
cried  Pomp  in  a  loud,  mysterious  whisper. 

Hardly  had  he  uttered  the  words  when  there  was 
a  quick  cry,  an  exclamation,  whether  of  horror  or  of 


KEVENGE.  515 

fear,  could  not  be  known,  followed  by  the  sharp  re 
port  of  a  pistol. 

"  Die,  false-hearted  craven  that  you  are  I"  cried  Nb- 
nina,  flinging  the  pistol  aside. 

A  deep  groan  followed  a  heavy  fall,  and  the  Span 
iard  lay  bleeding  upon  the  ground.  A  volante  and 
horses  were  near  by,  into  which,  at  the  moment  of  the 
return  of  Nbnina,  he  was  endeavoring  to  force  the 
faint  and  terrified  Imogen. 

For  a  moment  the  quadroon  stood  fixed  and  pale, 
as  when  she  flung  the  pistol  from  her  hand,  and  then 
she  sprang  forward  and  clasped  the  head  of  the  dying 
man  to  her  bosom.  She  snatched  a  cross  from  her 
girdle  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"Juan,  Juan,  forgive  me,  say  that  you  forgive 
me.  God  of  mercy  he  is  dying.  Kiss  the  cross. 
Mercy,  mercy,  he  will  die  without  absolution.  Juan, 
dear  Juan  1" 

He  breathed  heavily;  "Nina,"  he  murmured,  and 
a  deeper  gush  of  the  crimson  torrent  severed  the 
thread  of  life. 

We  must  leave  the  quadroon  to  her  heavy  fate. 
She  escaped  the  penalty  of  the  law  by  administering 
death  to  herself  by  a  potion  long  kept  for  the  pur 
pose,  for  the  deadly  passions  of  a  nature  like  hers,  in 
heriting,  as  she  did,  the  best  qualities  of  one  race  and 
the  worst  of  another,  indicate  always  a  violent  close. 


516  THE    NEWSBOY. 

She  had  her  revenge,  but  it  was  of  a  kind  fatal  to 
herself,  for  nothing  but  the  grave  was  left  her,  when 
he  who  had  filled  up  the  measure  of  her  life,  was 
taken  from  her  by  death  or  desertion. 

The  Newsboy  would  have  urged  Imogen  away 
from  this  scene  of  horror,  but  recovering  herself, 
overcome  as  she  had  been  by  the  terrors  of  her  own 
situation  so  lately,  she  now  felt  a  mingling  of  pity  as 
well  as  of  dread,  as  she  looked  upon  the  wretched 
Nonina,  weeping  and  wringing  her  hands  over  the 
dead  body  of  her  lover. 

"  Juan,  Juan,  could  you  not  speak  to  poor  Nina  ? 
Oh,  Juan,  pale,  dead,  and  by  me.  Gone,  gone  1  Oh 
my  God,  is  there  no  help  ?  none — none — dead,  dead !" 
Then  she  lifted  the  pale,  cold  face  up  in  the  moon 
light,  where  a  soft  calm  rested  upon  the  features  but 
half  an  hour  since  marked  with  so  many  evil  pas 
sions. 

Seeing  Imogen,  she  cried,  "Go,  go,  but  for  you 
this  had  not  been.  You  and  your  mother  were  the 
bane  of  his  life.  Go,  ere  I  madly  wreak  my  revenge 
upon  you.  Go,  ere  I  help  to  carry  out  beyond  the 
grave  the  vengeance  of  the  Spaniard,"  and  she  broke 
into  a  wild,  discordant  laugh. 

The  Newsboy  placed  Imogen  in  the  volante,  de 
signed  for  the  same  purpose  by  Cosmello,  and  they 
took,  once  more,  -the  road  to  Havana,  leaving  the 


KEVENGE.  517 

plantation  resounding  with  the  cries  of  the  negroes, 
who  gathered  to  the  spot,  with  their  unearthly  lament 
ations.  On  their  way  to  the  city  the  Newsboy  be 
thought  of  the  American  Consul,  and  hastened  at 
once  to  put  Miss  Dinsmoor  under  his  protection.  To 
him  a  full  statement  of  the  facts  of  the  case  was 
made.  Dona  Isabella  fanned  herself  violently,  but 
affirmed  her  total  ignorance  of  anything  in  the  mat 
ter  ;  indeed,  she  affected  to  doubt  the  whole  story,  but 
her  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  only  child  was  certainly 
much  less  than  might  have  been  expected  on  the  oc 
casion.  It  was  well  known  that  his  relation  with  the 
quadroon,  who  became,  as  we  have  seen,  so  efficient  a 
tool  for  the  vicious  passions  of  her  son,  had  been  for 
many  years  both  scandalons  and  repugnant  in  the 
eyes  of  the  proud  mother. 

A  few  weeks,  and  the  steamer  returned  the  News 
boy  and  his  charge  to  New  York.  We  shall  make 
no  attempt  to  describe  the  meeting  of  the  parent  and 
child.  Too  sacred  their  joy,  too  sacred  their  grief, 
for  us  to  lift  the  veil,  and  expose  the  view  to  human 
eyes.  The  Newsboy  had  redeemed  his  pledge,  he 
had  restored  the  lost  child  to  her  home,  and  it  may 
be  life,  from  henceforth,  lost  something  of  its  purpose 
to  him.  He  was  now  the  acknowledged  partner  of 
Mr.  Dinsmoor,  honored  as  was  his  due,  but  alas  !  rev 
erenced  more  than  loved. 


LXV. 


ONE  morning,  after  the  return  of  the  Newsboy, 
Mr.  Dinsmoor  found  him  leaning  over  his  desk  so 
abstractedly,  that  his  attention  was  at  once  arrested. 
A  slight  movement,  on  his  part,  caused  Bob  to  look 
up  and  find  the  eyes  of  the  merchant  fixed  upon  him 
with  melancholy  interest. 

"My  friend,  my  benefactor,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "  Dady  and  I  will  go  away  for 
awhile.  It  is  best  —  'cause  why  ?  I  'm  bound  to  think 
we  must  keep  up  manfully  in  the  world,  and  I'm 
weak  —  " 

He  could  say  nothing  more  for  the  tears  that 
choked  his  utterance. 

"My  son,"  said  the  merchant,  laying  his  hand 
tenderly  upon  the  Newsboy's  arm,  "  I  love  you  as  my 
own  child.  You  love  my  daughter  ?" 

The  Newsboy's  face  was  pale,  and  then  red  by 
turns,  as  he  struggled  to  reply. 


CONCLUSION.  519 

"  I  'm  bound  to  own,  Sir,  I'm  weak-hearted.  Miss 
Imogen  has  been  in  my  prayers  so  many  years,  that 
she  is  near  to  me,  as  God  is." 

"Speak  to  Imogen,  Bob,  you  have  my  full  con 
sent," 

Here  was  indeed  a  hope  to  any  other  heart  but 
that  of  the  Newsboy.  He  knew  the  gratitude  of 
Imogen,  her  unbounded  love  for  her  father,  and  sub 
mission  to  his  wishes  ;  and,  on  a  foundation  like  this, 
much  might  be  achieved  by  a  mind  of  ordinary  cast. 

That  same  evening  Imogen  had  been  touching  the 
harp  with  exquisite  skill,  and  never  had  she  looked 
more  tenderly  beautiful.  Preserving  still  the  Span 
ish  dress  of  flowing  white,  her  hair  braided  as  in 
Cuba,  with  those  soft  wavy  movements  so  common  in 
the  tropics,  and  so  rare  amongst  the  more  intellectual, 
and  sharper-toned  women  of  America,  she  presented 
remarkable  attractions  to  any  eye.  To  Charles 
Gardner  she  more  than  filled  the  ideal  of  his  youth  ; 
and  lie  who  had  been  so  gay  and  careless  with  other 
beauties,  listened  to  Imogen  with  a  deep,  reverential 
homage,  for  every  quality  of  her  mind,  as  well  as 
feature  of  her  body,  was  of  a  fine  ideal  tone.  Culture 
had  done  much  for  her ;  sorrow  had  thrown  a  soft, 
hazy  shade  of  sadness  about  her  which  appealed  at 
once  to  the  heart.  Her  gaiety,  even,  was  tinged  with 
this  touching  shade ;  and  her  smile,  slow,  sweet,  and 


520  THE    NEWSBOY. 

beaming  as  that  of  a  child,  had  a  peculiar  fascination 
about  it.  Nonina,  always  careful  for  the  safety  of  her 
guilty  lover  so  long  as  her  own  claims  were  acknowl 
edged,  had  trained  Imogen  in  utter  seclusion.  It  was 
long  before  she,  a  stranger  to  the  language,  was  able 
to  learn  even  the  place  to  which  she  had  been  carried. 
Borne  sick,  and  nearly  dead  with  grief,  to  the  little 
coffee  plantation,  she  had  gradually  recovered  her 
equanimity.  At  this  time  she  was  so  pale,  so  thin, 
and  forlorn  looking,  that  Cosmello  turned  from  the 
sight  of  her  with  disgust,  a  feeling  which  the  quad 
roon  was  careful  to  cultivate,  by  representing  her 
always  as  moping  and  half  idiotic. 

Cosmello,  secure  of  the  faithfulness  of  JSTonina,  had 
travelled  much,  and  thought  of  Imogen  little,  and 
only  as  one  who  had  gratified  his  revenge,  and  whose 
life  was  now  of  little  value  to  herself  or  others.  It 
was  during  his  absence  in  Europe  that  the  quadroon 
had  been  to  the  confines  of  the  grave,  as  we  have 
seen.  Poor  Imogen,  neglected  and  dispirited  as  she 
had  been,  clung  with  tender  devotion  to  this  her  only 
seeming  friend,  and  thus  beguiled  the  grateful  Noni- 
na  of  the  secret  reason  of  her  abduction.  From  this 
time  she  took  a  new  hold  upon  life.  She  began  to 
study,  to  exercise  her  powers,  and  something  like  a 
friendship  was  established  between  the  two.  Nonina 
was  a  Catholic,  and  had  all  the  terrors  of  her  sect  for 


CONCLUSION.  521 

imconfessed,  and  unabsolved  sin;  and  hence  the 
secret  so  long  preying  upon  her  mind,  unrelieved  by 
the  rites  of  her  church,  often  threatened  the  over 
throw  of  her  reason.  Cosmello  knew  this  aspect  of 
her  mind,  which  he  always  designated  a  weakness ; 
but  he  was  well  aware  that  her  attachment  for  him 
self  would  effectually  bridle  her  tongue.  He  knew, 
also,  her  vindictiveness,  a  violent,  hasty  quality  in  her, 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  slow,  deadly  malice  of 
his  own  character ;  and  he  often  trembled  at  the  freak- 
ishness  of  its  manifestation.  Jealous  also  was  the 
quadroon,  and  hence  his  determination  to  boldly  re 
move  Imogen  from  her  care,  which  was  thwarted  in 
the  fatal  manner  we  have  recorded. 

On  the  return  of  Cosmello,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
found  not  a  pale,  thin,  imbecile  girl,  as  he  had  been 
led  to  suppose  Imogen  to  be,  but  a  tall,  beautiful 
woman,  whose  cast  of  mind  and  style  of  loveliness 
revived  the  one  fatal  passion  of  his  youth.  He  was 
still  elegant  in  person ;  if  not  young  he  was  hand 
some,  refined  and  cultivated,  why  should  not  the 
daughter  heal  the  wounds  inflicted  by  the  mother? 
True,  the  quadroon's  fatal  disclosures  would  naturally 
incense  and  prejudice  her  against  him,  but  once  away 
from  this  jealous,  turbulent  woman,  Imogen  might 
yield  to  his  wishes. 

She  had  lived  in  such  utter  seclusion  that  she  was 


522  THE    NEWSBOY. 

entirely  ignorant  of  the  world,  except  as  she  had 
learned  it  from  books ;  and  now,  as  she  moved  in  the 
elegant  saloon  of  ^ier  father,  she  seemed  like  some 
fair  Nun  escaped  from  her  cloister. 

While  Imogen  sang,  as  we  have  said,  Charles 
Gardner  leaned  at  one  side  listening  as  if  entranced, 
and  the  Newsboy  had  drawn  near,  so  wrapt  with  the 
melody  that  his  eyes  never  turned  away  from  the 
fair  singer.  When  she  ceased,  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Miss  Imogen,  will  you  walk  with  me  in  the 
conservatory.  I  have  something  I  wish  to  say  to 
you." 

Imogen  arose  with  a  blush,  and  a  slight  glance  at 
Charles  Gardner,  as  she  left  the  room.  She  put  her 
arm  frankly  within  that  of  Bob,  and  they  walked 
amid  the  rich  blossoms  in  silence.  The  white  robes 
of  Imogen  fell  soft  and  Nun- like  about  her,  and  her 
pure  brow  looked  fair  and  innocent  as  that  of  a 
child.  Bob  also  had  his  peculiar  attractions.  There 
was  much  akin  in  the  two — both  had  a  touch  of 
melancholy  about  them,  and  both  were  in  the  highest 
degree  simple  and  candid  in  their  mental  develop 
ments. 

Bob  placed  his  companion  in  one  of  the  light 
chairs  of  the  p]ace,  and  leaned  himself  against  a 
column.  The  vines  clustered  about  his  head,  his 
air  was  grave  and -manly,  and  his  attitude  graceful. 


CONCLUSION.  523 

"  Miss  Imogen,  when  I  was  an  ignorant,  ragged 
boy,  kneeling  in  the  aisle  of  Grace  Church,  so  small 
and  squalid  that  the  sexton  would  have  turned  me 
out  but  for  you — you  took  me  then  to  your  side — " 
he  stopped  a  moment,  "  since  then,  Miss  Imogen, 
great  changes  have  transpired,  great  trials  also,  but 
never  from  that  day,  Miss  Imogen,  have  you  been  for 
a  moment  out  of  my  heart.  I  'm  bound  to  say,  Miss 
Imogen,  I  Ve  hardly  seen  a  woman  in  the  world,  so 
much  have  you  been  before  me.  I  have  felt  holy 
as  it  were.  'Cause  why  ?  I  had  an  angel  sitting  al 
ways  in  my  heart." 

Imogen  wept  now,  and  Bob  stopped  to  recover 
from  the  tears  which  impeded  his  utterance ;  he 
went  on  : 

"  Your  mother  looked  to  me  for  help,  she  did ; 
she  expected  me  to  bring  you  home,  and  I  felt  al 
ways  I  should  do  it.  She  loved  me,  your  father  loves 
me,  but  the  heart  of  a  maiden  has  its  own  choice,  and 
I  ask  you,  Miss  Imogen,  in  candid- wise,  if  you  think 
you  can  love  me  ?" 

Imogen  gave  her  hand  cordially  to  the  Newsboy ; 
it  did  not  tremble.  "Eobert,  you  are  noble  and 
manly.  My  father  loves  you,  he  desires  this  ;  that 
must  be  a  wayward  heart  that  does  not  see  your 
worthiness  I" 

Bob  looked  calmly  in  the  face  of  his  companion. 


524  THE   NEWSBOY. 

"It  is  not  of  my  worthiness  I  would  speak,  Miss 
Imogen.  I  should  not  talk  with  the  daughter  of  my 
best  friend  in  the  way  I  do,  did  I  not  feel  my  manly 
worth.  I  know  that,  Miss  Imogen,  and  I  know  also 
that  I  could  protect  you,  and  wipe  the  tears  that 
might  come,  for  sorrow,  I  'rn  bound  to  say,  might 
dim  even  your  beautiful  eyes,  Miss  Imogen ;  but  I 
would  wipe  them  away,  tender-like,  as  if  they  were 
my  sweet  child's,  Dady's  even.  I  should  be  proud- 
like  of  you  also,  as  if  you  were  my  dear,  pure  sister, 
whom  I  would  not  let  an  evil  thing  light  upon, 
and — "  here  he  bent  forward  and  took  her  hand  in 
his ;  "  I  could  love  and  worship  you  with  the  love  of 
a  true,  manly  heart — one,  Miss  Imogen,  to  which 
shame,  and  dishonor,  or  unmanliness  never  entered." 

Imogen's  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  the  tears 
streamed  from  beneath  their  lids.  Bob  still  held  her 
hand  in  his. 

"  Speak,  Miss  Imogen,  candid-like  as  I  have 
spoken.  You  know  it  is  all  between  God  and  us." 

Still  she  was  silent,  and  still  the  tears  fell  from 
her  eyes ;  at  length  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  My 
father's  wishes  are  a  law  to  his  child." 

The  Newsboy  dropped  the  hand  he  had  taken  in 
his,  and  now  he  laid  it  over  his  great  heart,  for  he 
felt  the  tender  pressure  of  Minnie's  there ;  it  always 
came  to  comfort  hirh  at  any  new  pang. 


CONCLUSION.  525 

1  'That  is  enough,  Miss  Imogen.  Your  heart  is 
not  with  me.  God  forbid  I  should  ever  cause  it  a 
single  pang.  I  am  bound  to  say  I  am  weak-hearted, 
I  was  not  quite  certain  how  it  stood  between  us,  but 
I  shall  not  trouble  you,  Miss  Imogen,  with  sighing 
and  looking  unmanly.  I  will  go  away ;  when  we 
next  meet,  shall  it  not  be  as  brother  and  sister  ?" 

Imogen  sprang  forward  and  pressed  the  brave, 
manly  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  God  bless  you,  noblest,  best.  I  am  not  worthy 
of  your  great  heart,  Kobert." 

The  Newsboy  turned  to  go,  then  he  came  back,  a 
faint  smile  passed  over  his  face.  "  This  once,  Miss 
Imogen,"  and  he  impressed  a  kiss  upon  the  beautiful 
brow !  Passing  outward  he  encountered  Charles 
Gardner,  who  walked  up  and  down  the  hall  pale  and 
distracted.  The  Newsboy  approached  him  and  said 
calmly, 

"  I  am  bound  to  say,  Charles,  her  father  wished 
it,  I  wished  it  also,  but  the  maiden  should  be  free  to 
choose.  Go,  you  will  be  welcome." 

Scarcely  did  the  impatient  young  man  wait  to 
thank  his  generous  friend,  but  in  the  eagerness  of  his 
selfish,  youthful  passion,  rushed  to  claim  a  treasure  of 
such  pure,  serene  worth,  as  well  might  cause  a  manly 
heart  to  tremble  before  it, 

"  But  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread." 


626  THE    NEWSBOY. 

"I  am  bound  to  say,  I  am  more  worthy  of  her 
love,"  murmured  the  Newsboy. 

He  was  answered  by  a  deep  groan  from  Aunt 
Beckey,  who  had  watched  the  proceedings  of  the 
evening  with  a  silent  interest.  Ascending  the  stairs, 
she  followed  the  youth  to  his  room ;  and  when  he 
would  have  thrown  his  head  upon  the  pillow  in  an 
outbreak  of  tears,  she  received  it  upon  her  warm, 
motherly  bosom,  and  laid  her  large  hand  upon  his 
pale  cheek,  and  wept  with  him. 

"I  knew  how  it  would  be,  women  never  know 
what  is  good  for  them;  they'll  throw  themselves 
away  upon  some  rapscallion  or  another,  and  give  the 
mitten  to  the  best  man  alive.  I've  seen  it  many's 
the  time.  There  was  Betsey  Buncum,  might  a  had 
Deacon  Liscom,  a  God-fearing  man,  with  a  nice  farm, 
and  carriages,  carts,  wagons,  and-so-forth,  and  stock, 
and  all  with  no  incumbrance  but  his  mother,  a  take- 
things-easy  kind  of  a  critter,  that  would  n't  bother  no 
body  ;  but  no,  Betsey  set  her  heart  upon  a  sprig  of  a 
chap  that  came  down  from  York,  and  gin  out  that  he 
was  head  of  a  great  firm  there,  and  he  w as  out  takin' 
orders.  Well,  Betsey  married  him,  and  it  turned  out 
that  he  had  n't  a  second  coat  to  his  back ;  but  he  had 
another  woman  down  there,  and  the  Lord  knows  how 
many  children." 

The  energetic  voice  of  Aunt  Beckey,  and  her 


CONCLUSION.  527 

homely  details,  certainly  had  the  effect  to  rouse  the 
young  man  from  his  sense  of  disappointment,  for  he 
lifted  up  his  head  with  something  like  a  smile. 

"  There,  that 's  right,  Bob ;  never  you  mind  ; 
there 's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  was  ever  caught  out 
of  it.  Bless  my  soul,  Bob,  was  I  a  young  woman,  I 
should  know  better  than  refuse  a  man  like  you.  But 
gals  is  gals;  they'll  always  go  through  the  swamp, 
and  pick  up  a  broken  stick  at  last." 

In  this  way  the  good  creature  strove  to  comfort 
him,  and  comfort  came  at  last ;  but  through  the  large, 
manly  nature  of  the  Newsboy  it  came,  and  not  from 
any  of  the  considerations  urged  upon  him  by  Aunt 
Beckey.  He  travelled  much  abroad,  and  thus  en 
larged  his  views  of  life ;  and,  when  some  months  after 
the  interview  we  have  described,  the  great  stone 
house  was  thrown  open,  and  a  numerous  assemblage 
came  to  congratulate  Mr.  Dinsmoor  on  the  marriage 
of  his  beautiful  daughter  to  the  handsome  Charles 
Gardner,  Bob,  the  young  partner  of  the  firm,  was  not 
there.  But  when  the  father  blessed  his  child,  and 
imprinted  a  kiss  upon  the  brow  of  the  bride,  his  noble 
heart  confessed  with  a  pang  he  would  gladly  have 
substituted  for  the  bridegroom,  in  place  of  Charles 
Gardner,  the  unknown  of  birth,  the  unaided  in  youth, 
the  self-reliant,  manly  young  Newsboy.  The  News 
boy  is  abroad,  but  perhaps  may  yet  return. 


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Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  dat( 
Books  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW. 

OCT  2  5  2005 

FORM  NO.  DD6                        UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELE 
50M    4-04                                                    Berkeley,  California  94720-600 

U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


